


Hellbound Heart

by burneraccount_1990



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Greek Mythology, Lore Olympus (Webcomic), Mythology
Genre: Blood and Violence, Everyone Needs Therapy, F/M, Found Families, Gen, Italian Mafia, Multi, Organized Crime, Other, Survivor Guilt, War, hades especially needs therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:48:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 82,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26227432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burneraccount_1990/pseuds/burneraccount_1990
Summary: Modern retelling of H and P. Logan "Hades" Black is a crime boss and Stella Porter is the young, alluring daughter of the District Attorney that wants to lock him up for life and finally clean up the poorer districts of the city.I wanted to go for something a little more...dark and twisty this time around. I had a plot bunny I just need to get out of my system. I'm still working on the other story—but you all might enjoy this too. Hopefully. :) There will be smut, of course. Please read and review!
Relationships: Hades/Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Hades/Persephone (Lore Olympus)
Comments: 117
Kudos: 156





	1. Pandemonium

From the corner of his eye, he watched her. She was wearing a black dress, short and stylish. It sparkled under the low light of the bar. Her exposed back was covered in a large tattoo, a circle made up of different geometric shapes. 

She glanced back at him briefly, like she could feel him watching her, and held his gaze. _Interesting_. 

“Logan, are you listening to me?”

His eyes flickered back to William Fitzgerald, Virginia’s golden boy extraordinaire. High school star athlete. West Point graduate. Twenty-eight years old and a retired Army captain; heir to the Fitzgerald fortune; married to a high-powered super model-cum-international fashion designer. A father too, now, and a few times over at that. Logan tried to picture the family in his mind: two little boys and a daughter, and a beautiful, happy wife. The picture was perfect— _William Fitzgerald_ was _perfect_ , and it made Logan want to puke. 

“Yes,” he said, taking a lazy swig of bourbon. “What, congressional rep too small-time for you now? You’re not old enough to run for senate, Will.”

Will crossed his arms, annoyed, but even annoyed he was a Disney prince come to life. His blond curls reminded Logan of a halo, and his patrician face looked cut from marble. He always had a smug smile tugging at the corner of his lips, too, like he was in on a secret. No scars or injuries either. Two deployments and significant time outside the wire and not a goddamn thing happened to him or his men. Will was just born lucky, and Logan hated the kid for it. 

“I’m _laying_ the foundation. Playing the long game.”

“Sure.” Another swig, a stinging throat once more. He lit a cigarette, shut his eyes as the nicotine flooded his bloodstream. “Still don’t see what your political career has to do with me.”

“You need to stay out of trouble,” Will said, narrowing his eyes. Kid could try to be scary if he wanted to, but Logan had dealt with much scarier men in the past. He’d actually been in combat and suffered the consequences for it, too. Very few things could scare Logan now—and Will Fitzgerald certainly was not one of those things. 

Logan lounged back in his seat, kicked his legs out. The girl was still at the bar, and he could feel her curious gaze on him. His patience was wearing thin now; he wanted out of this booth. 

“You know I can’t do that,” he said.

“You’re the kingpin here! All I’m asking for is that you keep things... _peaceful_. Last thing I need to hear about is my brother getting murdered because your ego got too big and you pissed off the wrong syndicate.”

“We’re not brothers,” Logan said, pointedly. “You’re a Fitzgerald, remember? Me, I’m just a small-time crime boss.”

“We both know neither of those things are true.” 

“You should be more worried about that philandering beach bum. He’s the one that shares your last name.” And wealth. And legitimate influence. Everything handed to each of them on a silver platter while he had to fight just to survive for years. Very well, he was a fighter now, and not particularly inclined to doing favors without some promise of proper...compensation. 

“Christ, after all these years I hadn’t realize you were still so bitter about what happened. I’m sorry Logan, but you have to understand it wasn’t my fault, I was just a baby—” 

“You promise to keep the DA and police commissioner out of my business and I’ll make sure nothing too... _untoward_ happens. But I can’t make any promises that there won’t be outbursts, and examples will need to be made. You understand.”

“Understand? _Understand?_ Fuck no, I don’t understand. What the hell happened to you, Logan? When did you become such a fucking sociopath?”

His ears were ringing now, his hand tight around the glass that held his drink. _Obnoxious little shit._

“Are we done here, or am I going to have to ask Bobo to escort you out?”

Bobo had only one eye, was built like a brick shithouse, and spoke only in monosyllables and grunts. Logan liked that Bobo wasn’t much of a talker. 

“We’re done,” Will said, extricating himself from the booth. “Y’know, Logan, one day when I’m President and you’re in hiding from some Columbian drug lord, you’re going to wish you had listened to me.”

“Be seeing you, Will.” Logan took a final swig of his bourbon and shifted his gaze back to the girl. She was still looking at him, but this time she smiled. _Very interesting_. 

He got up and stalked over to the bar, casually taking the seat next to her. “One gin and tonic for the young woman and a Long Island iced tea for me.” 

She laughed, and man, it was a nice sound. Melodic, unself-conscious...yet still _practiced_ , somehow. His lip curled up and he lit another cigarette. 

“Careful,” she said, purposefully not looking at him. Her tone of voice was practiced too; purposefully haughty, like she was above everyone in the room. He wasn’t buying it. “You’ll get kicked out for smoking here.”

“Doubtful,” he said, taking a long draught from his new drink. He held out his pack to her and heard the bartender chuckle. The distinctive clunk of an ashtray hitting the marble counter of the bar rang through his ears. “Want one?”

“No thanks,” she said, turning to look at him and smiling. She was younger than he thought. Early twenties, maybe even too young to be drinking. Absolutely gorgeous, too. Model-worthy. No, more than that—in another life, she could’ve been worshipped as a goddess. Her skin was a beautiful honey brown and her fiery red hair fell over her shoulder in a way much too graceful for a person so young.

But her emerald green eyes were the thing that really got him: looking into them made him feel like he was walking through a forest. His gaze shifted down to her full lips, and he was certain she would be a good kisser just by default. He pegged her for a heartbreaker immediately, and she wasn’t doing anything to change his mind. “I hear smoking kills,” she said.

“That’s what my doctor keeps telling me. Hasn’t happened yet—wonder what I’m doing wrong.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’ll catch up with you eventually,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “I’m Stella Porter, by the way.”

Logan knew that name; he had heard it in passing a few times on the news when he watched Cassandra Porter, the DA, grouse about how she was going to rid Empire City’s streets of corruption. So this was Cassandra Porter’s daughter. The DA’s daughter was in his club, at the bar, and very likely drinking underage. _Very, very interesting_. He kept his face neutral. 

“Logan,” he said, offering her his hand. She took it, surprising him with a firm grip, and they shook. 

“So, Logan...you got a last name?” 

He smiled around his cigarette, tapped off some of the ash into the tray. She was wearing a gold choker, and the tattoo of a dragon covered in vines snaked down her right arm. He was so distracted by it that it took him a moment to realize she was batting her eyelashes at him. 

“Black,” he said. “A pleasure.”

“Charmed, Mr. Black.” 

“So...what’s, ah, a young, _beautiful_ girl like you doing in a place like this?” _Pandemonium_ had class, he made sure of that. But it was dangerous, and those who were smart, stayed away. 

She laughed, setting down her drink. He felt the weight of her hand on his forearm. “You say that to all the girls that come in here?” 

“Only the young, beautiful ones.”

“Hmm,” she said, and she was very close now, very close indeed. “I like this club. There are places to sit, and the bar on this floor isn’t too loud. And...I’m here for a little fun, Mr. Black.” Belatedly, he noticed that she was toying with his cufflinks. Even more belatedly, he noticed that her knee was pressed against the inside of his thigh. She was playing a dangerous game. 

“Is that so?” He leaned back from her and put out his cigarette. “Your momma know you’re here? Can’t be good for the DA if the press finds out her daughter is underage drinking at _Pandemonium_.” 

“Please,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I’m twenty-five.” She turned away from him then, going back for her drink. 

“Your fake I.D. says you’re twenty-five.”

“Yeah, well, you just bought me a drink—you’d get in trouble too.”

He shrugged, lit another cigarette. “Already got a list of charges, Stella. One more ain’t going to make much of a difference.” 

She laughed. “You say that like you’re proud.”

He shrugged again. “Man has to be proud of something.”

Silence passed between them. Neither her hand nor leg had moved, which surprised him and...intrigued him, too. He placed his hand over hers and the tension between them grew.

“You still, ah, wanna have some fun, Miss Porter?” _Idiot, what are you doing?_ One-night stands were not his _thing_ ; truth be told, they stressed him out. And since rising up to the level of kingpin, he’d been too busy to try to— _Jesus_ —to try to _date_ anyone for— _Jesus Christ_ — _months_. _Fourteen months_ , at least. Celibacy hadn’t been a problem though—he’d always been picky, and sometimes wondered if maybe he leaned on the asexual side of things. But now this young woman was touching him, offering herself up like a sacrifice, and he suddenly felt like he needed a cold shower. 

She got really close to him then, running her long, lithe hands along his neck. “You know, I would,” she said, her soft lips touching the shell of his ear. “I think you’re very... _handsome_.” He had to suppress a shudder. The hand had moved down to his chest now, and he could already feel his dick starting to get hard. _Jesus_. “And you’re _older_ than the usual boys I spend my time with, so I’m sure you’d treat me _nice_.” She traced her hand down his stomach to the top of his belt, and he could feel his heart hammering in his chest, because he suddenly realized that this girl could really, really fuck up his life if she wanted to. 

She moved back suddenly and finished her drink. “But, you smoke like a train and smell like ash, so I think I’ll find my fun somewhere else tonight.”

“You do that,” he said, trying to maintain his composure. Just as well, because he probably wouldn’t last long enough to satisfy her. His blood was red hot already; if he stood right now, he’d collapse to the floor. 

“Here’s my number,” she said, putting a piece of folded paper into his front suit pocket. “For whenever you decide to kick the habit.” She patted his cheek like he was a dog— _the fucking nerve!_

“Dangerous men usually smoke, sweetheart.” Her tattooed back was to him now, and she was walking away.

“I see. And you’re a dangerous man, I take it?” she asked, looking over her shoulder at him. 

He smiled at her, the meanest looking one he could give. “Why don’t you ask your momma about me?”

She returned his nasty smile in kind, and boy, if he wasn’t pissed off at her before, he was now. Pissed off and really, really, _really_ horny. “Goodbye, Mr. Black. Call me.” 

Eddie's stupid voice broke Logan from his thoughts. “Aww don’t feel bad, Boss," he said, wiping down the marble countertop of the bar. "She was a handful. Beautiful broads like that often are."

Logan balled his hands into fists, and said, “Get me another drink. And shut up, Eddie.” He threw back the rest of his Long Island liquor and ordered one more shot of whiskey to calm his nerves. He needed to get home and sleep. And jack off, probably. That wasn’t something he really liked to _indulge_ in; it made him feel like he was wasting his time while he could be doing something otherwise _productive_. But, he wasn’t going to hire a prostitute, either, because the thought of sleeping with a prostitute stressed him out more than the thought of having a one-night stand. There were just too many factors to consider. Such a pretty-girl thing for her to do: leave him with an itch he didn’t want to—or couldn’t, really—scratch. 

The problem was, he wanted to sleep with _her_ , specifically. From the moment he saw her red hair and back tattoo. The desire was overwhelming, like he’d slammed face-first into the ocean. And that was a... _confusing_ feeling, because he hadn’t felt any desire to sleep with anyone for over a year, and it was potent enough that he couldn’t just ignore it as a case of passing lust. He had half a mind to run after her right now and shove her against the dirty wall of an alley like she was one of his girls turning a quick trick. She pissed him off, so he wouldn’t be gentle with her, either; he’d leave her bruised and aching. Use her. _She’d probably like that._ He shut his eyes tightly, because in spite of all the alcohol he had that evening, he still had a raging hard-on.

_"_ Boss, you alright? Your face is all red…”

_Get a hold of yourself_. 

“Gimme a shot of the strongest stuff we’ve got, I don’t care what it is.” 

“You want me to mix something new for you, Boss?”

“ _Eddie_.” 

“Okay, okay, don’t bite my head off. Here, it’s vodka. 80%. Don’t—don’t drive after this.” Eddie put the shot on the bar and Logan knocked it back without a word. After a few moments, he stretched his neck, felt himself relax, more importantly, felt his persistent and _annoying_ erection finally begin to go away. 

He was about to light up another cigarette but stopped. He’d been going through packs way too quickly these days and it bothered him that he could no longer control himself. And it bothered him too that Stella Porter rejected him over his bad habit. His palms were itching now, though, and he really, really, really wanted another damn cigarette. _Fuck it_. Just as he was about to fish out his lighter from his pocket, the sound of a person clearing their throat made him turn around. 

“You Hades?”

_Hades_. Now that word, that _name_ —that really got his scalp tingling like nothing else. Even as a kid, there’d been times where he’d hear it in class or in a movie, and for just a moment, he felt like he’d had an out of body experience. He didn’t _want_ the nickname—it made him feel _sick_ —but the Old Man started calling him that as a joke when he was a lowly enforcer, and the damn thing stuck with him through his crowning as the new kingpin. 

Logan peered down at a young man who was wearing black and white face paint. He looked like a skeleton.

“There’s a dress code for this place, kiddo. Be smart and get out before I have one of the bouncers throw you out.”

The kid chuckled. “Yeah, you’re Hades, all right. Getting harder and harder to tell with every iteration because you just get weaker and weaker and a few thousand years younger, but you’re him. Chip on your shoulder never goes away, it seems.”

“The hell are you talking about? And how the hell did you even manage to sneak in here, dressed like a Halloween ghoul?”

“Right, I can see you’re agitated, so let’s just cut to the chase. Listen...errr, _Boss_. We’re running out of time for you to wake the hell up. You and everyone else. This is basically our last shot to get things right. There’s a lot riding on you and, full offense, but you’re kind of a major fuck up. I mean, wow, talk about proving Demeter right. So I’m here to...errrr, _positively affect_ the causality of events, we’ll say.”

That was all nonsense as far as Logan was concerned. He was tired, annoyed, and now really craving a cigarette on top of craving some sex. Logan scanned the room. Good; there were only a few people still around in the club, all of them violent thugs. 

“Eddie,” Logan said, turning back to the bar and throwing back a final shot of liquor. 

“Yeah, Boss?” 

“Kill him,” he said, nodding in the direction of the kid with face paint. The gunshot was immediate. Nine millimeter Sig Sauer bullet, singing loud in his ears. The remaining patrons began to shuffle out of their booths quickly, because once violence started at _Pandemonium,_ it was usually difficult to stop. 

Behind him, he heard laughter, and it pissed him off. He turned around, steeling himself because Eddie shot the kid in the head, right between the eyeballs, and the kid was still standing like nothing had fucking happened. 

“Aww, _Boss_ , I gotta hand it to you, you’re as irascible as ever, even as a human.” 

“Eddie, give me the M4.”

The bartender reached under the marble counter and handed the weapon to him wordlessly, and together they watched as the bullet hole in the kid’s forehead stitched itself together until it was gone. Logan pointed the carbine at the kid, his nerves on fire. A man not dying from a close-range shot to the head, and _laughing about it afterwards_ , definitely counted as one of the things that scared the shit out of him. “You some kind of fucking freak?” However scared he was, though, he kept his voice calm. He was outside the wire again, that was all. 

“I’m a god,” the kid said, smiling through his face paint. He put his hands up, showing he wasn’t armed. “Some might say the _final_ god, but I don’t like to ‘believe my own hype,’ as the kids say these days.” 

Logan smirked. “Sounds like you need to see a shrink.”

“Ah, _no_. _You’re_ the one who definitely needs to see a shrink. Only other time I’ve seen such a head case version of you was when you were running around with Lord Byron and Mary Shelley and you were coked out of your mind. Anyway, I didn’t come here to fight, _Hades—_ ” 

“Shut up!” Logan said, feeling a mind-splitting headache coming on at the mention of his nickname. 

“Man, I love this, you’re so freaking _twitchy_. You never thought it was weird that hearing such an old name would make you want to puke your guts out, eh, _Hades_ _?_ ”

“Shut up!” Logan felt clammy and out of breath and he was, for some reason, hesitating to pull the trigger. 

“Or how about, _Hades Aidoneus Agesilaos_ _?_ Didn’t you ever think it was weird when everyone in your squad got blown to shit, you survived with just a scar on your nose and some shrapnel in your hip? No? Oh ho ho, I see you clearly now, _Boss._ All the shitty things you’ve done this time around. Your moral compass is pretty decayed these days. Gotta say though, never thought you’d turn into a _crime boss_. In the old days you would’ve sent a man’s soul to Tartarus for some of the stuff you’ve done this time around. I guess maybe that’s why it took me so long to find you. Guess I also shouldn’t be surprised you’ve gone down this route either.” 

“I said _shut up_ , you fucking _freak_ _!_ ” He hesitated no longer, shooting the guy again, twice in the head and once in the chest. When the kid collapsed, Logan walked over to him and continued to shoot. Only when he had completely emptied the magazine—all thirty goddamn rounds—did he stoop down to check the guy’s pulse. And it was there, strong as strong could be. And he was getting up again, stretching out his neck and yawning.  
  


Logan backed away immediately, tripping over the steps to the bar and falling hard on his ass. “You’re not—you’re not fucking _human!_ _What are you?_ ” 

“Boss, we’ve been over this already. I’m a god.”

“You’re God?” He had to be dreaming. He mixed up his Vicodin and alcohol again and he was in a coma somewhere, because this could not be fucking happening. Eddie was gone; Bobo too. He was alone. 

“No, not the big G, ‘God.’ If he exists, I haven’t met him, and I’m definitely _not_ him. But I am _a_ god. One of many. Or few, now, depending on your point of view these days.” 

“I’m dying, aren’t I? These are my neural synapses doing their last bit of firing before my pulse stops for good.” 

“No, no, you’re not dying this time if I can help it. But what I’m about to do—well, it’s not going to be very fun for you, and I don’t have time to explain what it is. I have to get out of here before they notice I’ve spoken to you, much as I know your little mortal brain is swimming with questions.” 

The guy was right in front of him now, and the face paint didn’t look like face paint any more. It looked like the skull was his face. _I’m in hell_ , Logan thought. _I died and I’m in hell_. 

“Now, brace yourself. This is definitely going to hurt you _so_ much more than it’s going to hurt me.”

Belatedly, Logan noticed the large, black knife pressed directly against his sternum. _Lack of situational awareness, recruit! You’re going to get people killed!_

“Wait—”

“No time,” the Grim Reaper said. Because that’s what he was, and Logan realized it too late. The blade pierced straight through his heart. 


	2. Nocturnes

He woke up in a palace. Not a mob boss palace, or Wall Street billionaire’s swanky penthouse palace, but an actual palace-palace. The ceiling was high and steep, like that of a gothic cathedral. As he looked closer, the ceiling disappeared into the night sky, and the sky was filled with swirling galaxies and innumerable stars that lit up the gigantic hall before him. He swallowed hard. 

Looking down at himself, he saw that his black pinstripe suit was gone, replaced with black and red robes that felt heavy and unwieldy. Something sat atop his head now, too, and when his nervous hands reached up to touch it, cool metal greeted his fingertips. 

“Uneasy is the head that wears a crown, it seems.” He nearly jumped out of his skin. From the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of curly red hair; heard her pleased titter of laughter. 

“ _You_ ,” he said, accusatory. 

“Me,” she responded. She was leaning back against a maroon marble column, still in her shining black dress, hands behind her back. Teasing, always teasing: her voice, her face—goading him, like she wasn’t afraid of him and held all the power. “You look good without a cancer stick in your mouth, by the way. Like your old self.” 

“What are you doing here?”

“Oh, a little of this, a little of that. You know.”

He walked over to her, trying to be as menacing as he could without tripping over all the fabric that encased him. He planted his hand just above her head, wincing as he heard his ring-clad fingers clink together against the stone. As a rule, he didn’t wear rings for the same reason he didn’t wear chain necklaces: he found them gaudy, conjuring up the image of a used-car salesman. He may have been a gangster, but he _did_ have standards, even if they didn’t necessarily make sense to anyone else. “No, I don’t know. So, why don’t you enlighten me, sweetheart. Where am I?”

She shrugged, batting her long lashes. This close, he could smell her: lilac and something else he couldn’t quite place. Something fruity, but not saccharine sweet or bitter. It was a good smell, whatever it was, an intoxicating smell, and he found himself losing the will to be angry with her. In fact, when he looked down at her and saw those big, green eyes gazing back up at him, something in his chest hurt. She looked older now, somehow. Wiser; like she had lived a thousand lifetimes, and she was judging him for his poor choices. 

“I’ve done the best I can,” he said suddenly. As if he had no control over it, his other hand reached forward and touched her cheek. She raised an eyebrow at him, curious. He didn’t want her judging him, didn’t want her to see whatever pathetic image of him she had created in her mind. 

“Are you trying to convince me, or are you trying to convince yourself, Hades?”

He blinked, feeling the power of the name course through him, shaking him to his core. She still had her eyebrow raised, but now a small smile tugged at her lips. Without thinking, he leaned down and kissed her softly, and he could feel her fingers slowly start to thread into his hair. He pulled back from her, only just, and looked into her eyes again, searching for something. 

“Who are you?” he asked. 

“Funny,” she said, kissing up his neck to his ear, “I’ve been wondering the same thing about you.”

The palace faded away from them, and beneath his sandaled feet he felt the soft ground of an orchard. She was sitting against the tree now, the strap of her black dress falling off one shoulder. She gave him a _look_ , the kind of look that said ‘come here,’ and he was hypnotized into kneeling next to her.

“What do you want?” he asked her, hooking his index finger around the strap. One little tug and she’d be naked and he’d—he’d—

  
  
He’d what? 

“I want to feel you,” she said, placing a hand on his chest. “It’s...been a long time, my love. It won’t be the same here, but it will be something.” As she was saying all that, she pushed him onto his back and straddled his hips, and he gave no resistance. She was naked now, though he couldn’t remember either one of them removing her dress. The strangest part, though, was that he was naked now too: his hard dick was pressed against her already-wet cunt, and his shaking hands were holding tightly onto her hips. 

“I’m confused,” he said, inwardly cringing at himself, because he rarely admitted when he didn’t know what was happening around him; he rarely admitted that a situation was out of his control. He always had to _seem_ self-assured and calm, even if he was scared out of his mind; lead by example, and the men would follow suit. “Am I dreaming?” 

It felt real. The warmth of her skin underneath his hands, the wetness of her cunt sliding over him. It all felt very, very real. 

She looked down at him, and for a second he thought he saw sadness in her eyes. Then she leaned forward and kissed his neck, and his eyes fluttered shut as she slid down on him.

  
  
He could’ve come right then. Months without sex or masturbation and then he’s suddenly inside a beautiful woman? Everything about the situation was overwhelming. 

“Relax,” he heard her whisper into his ear, breathy and aroused, like she was close to burning out too. “It’s good that you’re this responsive, even here,” she said after a moment, nibbling gently on his earlobe. “It’s progress.” _What?_ he wanted to ask her, but then she started to move, and any coherent sentences or thoughts he could’ve formed melted out of his brain. She kissed his nipples and he made a sound: a pathetic, out-of-control sound, and were he in any other state, he would’ve had the good decency to feel embarrassed. As it was, he just moaned, unable to hold any of the sad little cries in.

“That’s it,” she said, picking up the pace and putting her hands on his chest. He felt pinned down by her, which was a shame because he wanted to reach up and kiss her again. He liked kissing her; her lips were full, soft things, and he craved softness and affection more than he craved anything else in the world. She was strong, though—inhumanly strong, stronger than any man he’d ever fought—and she kept him pinned to the ground as she rode him with increasing urgency. His hands cupped her breasts and fondled her nipples, earning him a lovely sigh that he wanted to hear again. He traced his fingers down to where they were joined and began stroking that sensitive spot, watching her as her eyes rolled back. He touched her the same way again and she looked down at him for a moment before kissing him, hard, a lover’s kiss, and he felt her exquisitely soft cunt tighten around his cock as she orgasmed and whispered ‘Hades’ into his ear.

  
  
He sat up in his bed, cursing. His underwear felt wet and... _sticky_. He groaned, kicking his legs over the side of the bed and heading to the bathroom, where he took a freezing cold shower, brushed his teeth, and put on a fresh pair of boxer briefs. Despite all that, the hangover headache was going strong, and he felt a little woozy, too.

  
  
He splashed some more water on his face, rubbed his bleary eyes, and checked the clock in the mirror: _0630_. He estimated he stayed at the club until...0300, probably. So he’d only gotten a couple hours of sleep, if any. He looked at himself in the mirror, eying a scar in the middle of his chest that he hadn’t seen before. 

The black blade, from last night. _The Grim Reaper_. He seized the sink bowl, struggling to keep himself from falling. _It was a dream. It had to have been a dream_. But that scar was new, and right in the exact spot where that black dagger had pierced him in the chest. 

“Oh good, Boss, you’re awake. I was a little worried we might have to bring in a doc.”

“Johnny,” he said, catching his captain’s eyes in the mirror. Christ, his whole body was shaking. _Get a hold of yourself._ “What happened last night?”

“Huh? Oh, noth—nothin’ really, Boss. Eddie called me to pick you up, said you passed out at the bar not too long after you ordered the Death Shot, around midnight.” Something was up. Johnny was acting weirdly cagey. Bouncing back and forth on his heels, like he was hiding something. 

“The Death Shot, huh.” Yeah, that made sense. Much more sense than the Grim Reaper showing up at his club and soaking up bullets like a sponge. But it didn’t account for the scar in his chest, or the persistent gnawing at the back of his mind that something wasn’t _quite_ right. Every single scar he had came from something he experienced intimately; every _single_ one. So a new one showing up, seemingly out of nowhere, disturbed him greatly. 

“Yikes, that’s a nasty cut on your chest, Boss. You get that in Iraq?”

“No,” he replied, fingering the jagged tissue. It didn’t hurt, exactly, but it didn’t feel right, either. The mention of Iraq brought to his attention to the nagging, sharp pain in his leg he had pushed through to get to the bathroom. He sighed, opening the medicine cabinet, and felt his panic start to grow as he noticed his pain pills were missing.

“Johnny,” he said, barely-controlled rage coloring his voice, “come in here.”

“What’s up, Boss?”

Striking like a cobra, he grabbed Johnny’s thick neck and slammed him down to the floor. Johnny’s eyes widened in panic, and Logan soaked in his fear, enjoying the terrified look on his captain’s face. 

“Where is my Vicodin, John-John?” 

“I don’t know, Boss!” 

“You don’t know. Are you sure about that? You want to bet your life on that? Johnny, Johnny, Johnny...I’ll _kill_ you.” He squeezed his hands tighter around the captain’s throat to prove his point. “It’ll be slow. Painful. You’ll feel the life draining out of you and won’t have any control over it. So quit the bullshit and tell me now: where’s my Vicodin?”

He eased his grip slightly, allowing Johnny enough air to breathe and speak, but only just. 

“Your sister!” Johnny wheezed. 

Logan blinked, shook his head. “ _Sofie?_ ”

“She came here last night, Boss,” Johnny rasped, coughing. “Saw you blacked out and puking into the toilet, and demanded that we throw out your drugs. Said she knew you were going to overdose or mix up the wrong shit on the wrong day, and there’d be hell to pay if we let you die. And you—you know how much of a scary bitch your sister is. But she’s trying to help you, Boss.”

“ _Help me_?” He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Sofie had been in his penthouse, and the guys just let her in like she was _allowed_ to fucking be there.

“Yeah, Boss. Everyone can see you’re popping those pills like candy now, and if you’re not doin’ that, you’re smokin’ somethin’ fierce. She don’t want you to get addicted, and neither do the boys.”

“You idiots.” He released his captain and stood back up, massaging his throbbing temples. Fuck, he needed a cigarette. And Vicodin: the pain in his hip and leg was becoming unbearable. “I’m not addicted to anything except nicotine. I need those pills because I have fucking _nerve damage,_ you moron.”

Cautiously, Johnny stood, rubbed his throat. “We know that, Boss. But you didn’t see yourself last night. It was...bad.”

Logan limped over to his bed, opened the bottle of whiskey on his nightstand, and poured himself a glass. “Johnny,” he called, taking a swig, letting the liquor burn through him.

Johnny came out of the bathroom, looking a little shook up, but no worse for wear. Scared, but not too scared. Good. One of the reasons Logan had managed to rise to power so quickly was because thugs and criminals just... _liked_ him. He was _stable_ : not a cokehead, not obsessed with girls. Even-keeled most of the time, at least insofar as far as a mafioso went. That’s how he managed to stay one step ahead of the DA and her little piggies, too; he kept his cool, and he wasn’t... _impulsive_ . Well, except for just now. But could he be blamed for that? He shook his head, fiddling with his lighter. He _needed_ certain things to get through the day, all right. No Vicodin meant a burning leg, which meant he couldn’t focus for shit, which meant he’d get sloppy. “You better unfuck this mess right now,” Logan said, rolling his shoulders. 

“Boss?”

“I don’t care if you have to rob a pharmacy in broad daylight—get me my damn Vicodin.”

“Of course, Boss. You want us to uh...do anything about Sofie?” 

_What, like kill her?_ He had standards, dammit. He wasn’t about to commit fratricide—and besides, she was talented at cooking books and laundering his cash flow. She always kept him several steps ahead of Cassandra Porter, and that meant the Feds were still keeping their noses out of things too. No trail for the pigs to follow meant that their bark was far, far worse than their bite, and he intended to keep it that way.

“No. Just get me my pills and _I’ll_ talk to her.” The cigarette cravings were driving him up the wall now, and he resented how dependent on them he’d become. 

“Right away, Boss—”

“Johny, one more thing.”

“Yeah, Boss?” 

“Get me some nicotine patches too.” 

“Sure thing, Boss.”

Johnny stood there an irritating number of seconds, like he wanted to say something else, and Logan felt his anger get the best of him. “Well, what are you waiting for?" he asked his captain, seething. The vein in his forehead pulsed painfully. "Get the fuck out and do your damn job.”

"S-sorry, Boss, right away—"

" _Out!_ " And like that, Johnny skittered out of the room, like a cockroach. Logan ran his hand through his wet hair, exhaling loudly, and still severely on edge. He eyed the clock on his nightstand: 0700. She’d be awake by now, heading to her office. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, mulling over whether or not he should call her now or show up to her office unannounced, with his entourage of armed thugs, like an asshole. The increasingly painful burning sensation in his leg decided for him. He grabbed a burner phone from his nightstand, dialed her number. She picked up almost immediately.

“Good morning, this is Sofia Black.”

“Sofiiiiiiaaaaa,” he said, coating his voice with malice. “Much as I love you, you know how I don’t appreciate your unannounced, ah, _visits_.”

“Oh, you’re awake. Good. Listen, I know you’re probably throwing a tantrum right now over your pills, but I’m busy today. Talk to Johnny about it.”

“I almost killed Johnny over what you pulled.”

An annoyed sigh on the other end. “Don’t blame me for your bad choices, Logan. Look, I really have to go.”

“Sofie—”

She hung up on him without another word. “Be seeing you, Sofie,” he muttered, seething. Annoyed and frustrated, he pulled his planner out of his nightstand, eying what he had on tap for the day. As it was, his current schedule did not serve to lighten his already dark mood. 

He’d been the city’s major kingpin for about a year now, but peace was tenuous and there was always some other group trying to muscle its way into having a larger piece of the pie. One such group was the Moreno family, headed by Juan Jose “Toothfairy” Moreno, a Guatemalan drug lord with a penchant for knives and collecting the teeth of any unfortunate bastard that pissed him off. And well: Logan had irrevocably pissed off Toothfairy by filling in the power vacuum left behind in the city’s underworld, after a certain Piccini clan got wiped off the face of the Earth. Logan suspected that Toothfairy saw him as an upstart. Regardless, he had to meet with the guy to discuss some _terms_ and _conditions_ , because Logan was a boss now, and JJ Moreno would just have to deal with it, or be dealt with. 

That meeting was set for noon at Union Square. Public, in case Moreno got any funny ideas, since needlessly scaring civilians with a gunfight was never a good practice, even for the most bloodthirsty of his colleagues. 

Rubbing his thigh and leaning back against his pillow, he turned on the television, and who could it be but Cassandra Porter on the screen, front and center. She was talking about corruption again, and how she would weed it out; blah, blah, blah—he’d heard it all before. Still, he studied her face, the confident ridge of her brow, the graceful way in which she carried herself. “Now I see where Stella gets it from,” Logan said, finishing his glass of bourbon. 

His gaze shifted to the discarded pinstripe jacket on his bed. Cautiously, he pulled out the piece of paper she had stuffed into his pocket, stared at the number she gave him: 212-830-2214. He picked up the burner, dialed in the number slowly and purposefully, like he was a man walking on the way to his own execution. 

The phone rang for several beats before he heard a soft, confused, “Hello?”

  
  
That was her. Her voice was higher pitched, since she wasn’t consciously trying to sound sultry, and she sounded sleepy, like the call had woken her up, but it was definitely her. His mouth went dry, because suddenly the dream came rushing back to him, and he had no idea what to say, or _why_ he was being such a creep and calling her—and at 0730 in the goddamn morning, no less. 

“Hello? Is someone on the other end? _Hello_ —” He hung up, clutching his chest because his heart was hammering like crazy and it fucking _hurt_. 

“You’re always such a lovesick puppy with her, it’s great.” The Grim Reaper was sitting at the edge of Logan's bed now, inspecting his nails, like he had always been there. Like he was _supposed_ to be there. He was dressed in black skinny jeans and wore a Dir En Grey band t-shirt; his silver hair was fashionably, if exaggeratedly, spiked. He could’ve been a high schooler, but with the face paint it was difficult to tell. Where he wasn’t painted, his skin was ghostly pale, almost to the point of being translucent. “What, you’re not going to freak out on me today, start shooting up everything?”

Logan blinked, absentmindedly rubbed his burning thigh. “I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re a hallucination,” he said, raising the volume on the television. “It won’t do me any good to shoot you.”

  
  
“M’kay. And that nice big gash in your chest, that’s a hallucination too?”

“Sure. Or I got it in a fight and just don’t remember.”

“So you’ve just straight up chosen denial this time. Interesting. By the way, you got any food? Shadow-walking always makes me hungry.”

“Does it _look_ like we’re in a kitchen to you?”

“Your fridge is empty except for some eggs, and I don’t _like_ eggs—they make me gassy. I thought maybe you would have some snacks stashed in here—”

“FITFO, kid.”

“Eh? What’s that mean?”

“Figure it the fuck out.”

“Finnnnne, Mr. Grumpy Pants,” the Grim Reaper said, cracking a wide grin. He disappeared into thin air, like he was never there, and Logan groaned, looking up at his ceiling. _I’m finally losing it_ , he thought. He always had the worst luck with timing. 


	3. Devil

She thought a lot about his eyes. They were pretty eyes for a man. A ruthless intelligence shone in them as he looked her up and down, sizing her up. They were strangely bright, too; so bright that they almost glowed in the darkness of _Pandemonium’s_ lounge, like a cat’s. _Cobalt blue_ , she thought. His glowing cat’s eyes gazed at her coolly, like he was deciding on whether or not he was going to do... _something_ with her. What exactly that something was, she couldn’t decipher—but she wanted to provoke him into making a choice. As soon as she had found her spot at the bar, she felt him looking at her, and a dangerous thrill ran down her spine. Who was this strange man staring at her, like she was a puzzle he was trying to understand? She felt like she had seen him before, perhaps in a magazine or on television somewhere, or maybe they had met briefly in the past and she just couldn’t remember. 

He had what she guessed was about a day’s worth of stubble growth on his cheeks, accentuating the sharpness of a jawline that already looked like it could cut glass. A small, horizontal scar crossed the bridge of his nose; another ran from the top of his lip to his nostril. He was a rough-looking sort of man, like he’d had his fair share of brawls, but he was well-dressed and elegant in a black suit—almost kingly—and that dichotomy made him... _interesting_. She touched the tops of his knuckles, which were smooth but heavy beneath her fingertips. Strong hands, she knew. Hands that could kill, and without much effort, either. _He’s dangerous_ , she told herself, her heart skipping a beat. But he was sitting next to her, talking to her, letting her touch him, and she was exhilarated. She felt powerful, because she knew she was playing with fire by teasing him, and that knowledge thrilled her.

She thought a lot about his dark hair, and its singular tuft of gray at his right temple, and how she wanted to run her fingers through it, just to see what his reaction would be. Would he be quiet and stoic? Maybe he’d try to be at first. She’d wanted to do it then, at the bar, while she was quite certain he was putty in her hands, but her phone started ringing in her purse, and she knew then that playtime was over. 

Her roommates were looking for her; no, worse—her _mother_ was looking for her. Her roommates, she could ignore; her mother, she could not. So Stella made an excuse and left him, Logan Black, that dangerous man, at the bar, with a little breadcrumb for him to follow if he so wished. When she got home, she wasn’t surprised to find her panties soaked. Both of her roommates were passed out: one on the couch, and the other on the beanbag chair. She thought about calling a boy over; Henry was obviously still interested in her, and he could be fun, maybe, if he removed the giant stick lodged up his ass...but she didn’t want to play with his emotions. And she didn’t want to deal with the backlash from her mother, who worked with Henry every day since he’d been promoted to detective. And, let it be known, that had Henry lodged that massive, massive stick up his ass after said promotion, and that well-lodged stick made him boring and annoying to Stella. 

She went to sleep instead, and in the darkness of her dreams, she thought a lot about Logan Black. She thought about how his strong fingers would feel inside her; how the scar on his lip would feel leaving feverish kisses against her skin. She thought about how she would bind him, and have him at her mercy—a powerful, dangerous man brought down to his knees before her. Then she saw him wearing a platinum crown, sitting on a throne of human skulls. He looked at her, a little kinder than she’d seen him look at her before, and he motioned for her to sit next to him on a gilded throne of her own. 

Instead, she climbed onto his lap, earning her a pleased gasp of surprise as she straddled his hips. 

“You’re having some... _interesting_ fantasies, darling,” he said, curling her hair around his fingers. The way he looked at her—it was both him, and not him. 

“I like to be in charge,” she said, the lust that dripped from her voice startling her. 

A wolfish smile crossed his face. “That’s what I love about you.” His hands moved down to her hips and he pushed up against her. Through the fabric of her clothes, she could feel his hard cock, and she grabbed his shoulders in response. “Take charge,” he said, like it was a challenge. His eyes gleamed, mischievous and predatory, and he leaned forward, kissed her cheek. “Ruin me,” he whispered into her ear. In response, she kissed him, hard. Her hands threaded through his thick hair, and he moaned into her mouth, shivering. “Ruin me,” he repeated when they broke apart.

The sound of her cell phone ringing woke her up, only for there to not be anyone on the other end of the line. 

“Stella you’re pretty quiet this morning. Still hungover from last night?” 

“Yeah,” she said, looking at the call history on her phone. Had it been him who tried to call her earlier? “A little bit.”

“You get a hold of your ma?”

“Nah. Texted her; she hasn’t responded. I think she had a press conference this morning. She’s fine. Just overprotective, y’know?”

Her roommate, Natalie, nodded, taking a sip of her coffee. “I _still_ don’t know how she found out we were at _Pandemonium._ ” 

“Yeah, well, there’s nothing she can do about it. Not like it was illegal or whatever for us to be there.”

“Yeah I know,” Natalie said, taking another sip. “Your mom is kind of scary though. I don’t want to be on her bad side, is all I’m saying.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s a front. Oh, speaking of the she-devil—” She put the phone to her ear. “Hello, birth-giver.”

Natalie stifled a chuckle and sat back on the cheap IKEA couch that took up a majority of the space in their tiny living room.

“Stella, sweetie, you know I asked you not to go to that place.”

Stella thought about being coy, but decided against it. Her mom already knew she’d been to _Pandemonium_ , no point in denying it. “Mom, it’s the most popular club in the city right now.”

“Yes, and it’s in the most dangerous part of the city, too.”

“Yeah, well, nothing bad happened so could you, y’know, leave my friends and I alone?”

A sigh on the other end of the line. “I worry for you, Stella. The worst kind of men in this city know who you are, and that’s exactly where they congregate. God forbid something were to happen to you—I don’t know what I would do. And it was a school night.”

Stella sipped on her coffee and shrugged her shoulders at Natalie, who looked incredibly amused. “Mom, I’m fine, we’re fine—” she stopped talking, hearing other voices on the line speaking to her mother. “Who’s talking to you? It sounds like Henry. Mom? Mom—”

“A _baby_ _?_ Jesus. Stella, I have to go. Something just came up. We’ll—we’ll talk later.”

  
  
“Is everything okay?”

“No. Double homicide...there’s a baby involved. I can’t speak more on it. I’ll call you later. Be safe. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

The line disconnected. 

“That last part looked grim, Stell.” Natalie was sitting with her legs crossed now, finishing the rest of her yogurt and cereal breakfast. Stella’s stomach growled uncomfortably. She was hungry, but how could she eat now after hearing _that_ ?

  
  
“My mom said there was a double homicide. One of the victims was a baby.” 

“Shiiiieeeeetttt.” 

“Yeah.” 

Stella hugged her arms around herself. Not a lighthearted way to start the morning. She remembered sneaking into her mother’s office one day, when she was really little, and seeing the photos of a woman who’d been murdered. The details of the photo eluded her now, but she remembered being scared and screaming; she remembered her mom rushing into the office, picking her small body up, and comforting her as she cried. Her mom dealt with this kind of darkness on a daily basis. _No wonder she’s such a hardass_. 

She thought about Logan Black, and his cold blue eyes, and felt a twist of disgust with herself that she had found him attractive at all. God, and she _gave_ him her number! What the hell was she _thinking?_

“You okay? You got pretty pale on me all of a sudden.”

“I’m just feeling stupid, Nat.”

“What’s up?”

“Last night at the club, when I snuck off from you and Marie, I met a guy…”

“...Yeah, and?”

“And I gave him my number. I don’t know why. I was just, I don’t know, flirting, having fun, I guess. And he was sexy.”

“Okayyyy...I gotta be honest, Stell, I’m failing to see the problem here.”

“I don’t think he’s a good dude, is the problem, Nat.”

Nat pulled her wild blonde hair into a loose bun. She was thinking hard now, considering the words Stella told her. “I mean, was he weird? Did he pressure you into giving him your number?”

“No...not at all. He just seemed…” Stella searched for the right word; couldn’t find it. “I don’t know. _Rough,_ I guess?”

Natalie snorted. “Well, yeah. He was a man at _Pandemonium_.” 

“Yeah…” Stella got up, shaking her head. Her stomach was growling again; she really needed food instead of just coffee. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m reading too much into things. That call from my mom kind of spooked me, I guess.” 

“Listen, if he calls you or messages you and he’s creepy, just block his number.”

“Yeah…”

“You don’t seem convinced that’s a good strategy, sis. Mind telling me what his name is, if you even got that far?”

“Logan Black,” Stella said, pouring herself a bowl of cereal. 

“No shit. Really?”

“What?” 

“Stell, c’mon. How do you not know who Logan Black is? Dude owns like half the city! Your mom hasn’t mentioned him _at all?_ ”

Now Stella was getting frustrated. Was she _supposed_ to know who he was? Her mother’s world involved murders and sex crimes, and other horrible things Stella really didn’t want to think about. “No. My mom and I usually try to avoid the specifics of her job, Nat. Why should she care who he is?” 

“Well, he’s the owner of _Pandemonium_ , for one. As awesome as the place is, you know it’s shady.” Yeah, _Pandemonium_ was definitely shady...but then again, so were most clubs. She looked at the clock: 9:30. She was going to be late for class. 

“Look, forget I said anything.” 

Natalie shrugged, moved to put her dirty dishes in the sink. “Just block him when he calls you and put him out of your mind. Or don’t. Up to you.”

“Thanks, Nat.” 

“Anytime, sis. I’ll get those dishes when I get back from work. See you.”

“See you.” 

She thought about Logan Black a lot that day in class: how he seemed so familiar and yet so alien. She thought about how... _easy_ it was to flirt with him, how she didn’t feel self-conscious about it at all; she felt strangely free around him. Their flirtation reminded her of a dance, and he reciprocated her advances and quips in kind. Still, she was nervous about him potentially calling her. There was no doubt he was dangerous, especially now that she knew he was the owner of _Pandemonium_. Did she want to block his number? Yes...and no. She was curious about him, despite her better judgement. She felt sexy around him. _Desirable_ —and that was a heady thing to feel. Desirable and sexy like she was a woman, and not the boyhood crush of Henry...or the quick fuck of some college boy she’d met on Tinder. 

While the professor was lecturing on the concept of villainy in _Richard III,_ Stella was busy googling Logan Black, and she wasn’t finding much. A few newspaper articles here and there about property and company acquisitions, some wild estimates about his possible net worth, and his perennial bachelor status, but nothing to suggest anything particularly nefarious. No birthdate or birthplace listed, either. It seemed he was good at staying out of the public’s mind. He had no social media accounts as far as she could tell, not even a _LinkedIn_ , which even her mom—tech dinosaur and terrible with literally all things involving the Internet—had. She _did_ manage to find a photo of him in some kind of military uniform, and he looked a lot younger in it, like he could have been a teenager. He wasn’t smiling in the picture, but his stern expression didn’t take away from the youthfulness of his face. Babyfaced as all hell, to be quite honest. _He looks like a freaking kid_ , she thought. _God_ , he looked the same age as her little brother, who was just turning fifteen in a couple of days. 

“Who’s that young devil on your screen, Stella?” That was Dan, an old Marine vet finally getting his degree. He didn’t usually sit next to her, but today they were paired for close readings of _Richard III_. Close readings which she didn’t help him with because she was distracted by googling info on Logan Black. _Oops_. 

“Uhh, he’s...” she mumbled, blushing. “Uhhhhh….”

“Looks fresh out of boot in that portrait. Hard to believe most of us come in with baby faces like that. He didn’t break your heart, did he? You’ve been staring at him for a while.”

“No, no. I only just met him. Only doing a little bit of internet sleuthing is all. Innocent, lighthearted stalking.” 

Dan chuckled. “Tracking. I’m going to tell you right now: he’s not worth it.” 

Stella laughed quietly, trying to hide from the professor’s annoyed gaze. “You’re probably right, Dan.”

“Miss Porter, I trust that you and Mr. Hood are staying on topic, yes?” 

“Yes, Prof. Foster,” she said, biting the inside of her cheek. “Just discussing the themes of nature versus nurture present in the text.” 

“Ah-ha. Please try to stay on topic.”

Dan pushed his notes to her with a good-natured smile. “Here, so the prof doesn’t get too mad.” 

“Thanks, Dan.” After that, she was finally able to focus enough to help Dan out, though she still thought about Logan Black. He didn’t _seem_ that shady anymore, though she felt like she knew even less about him. _Who are you?_ she wondered. In her mind, she saw his bright eyes burning in the dark.

***

Logan checked his watch: 12:15. Toothfairy was fifteen whole minutes late for their meeting, which meant that either A: someone had killed the man, or B: he was intentionally trying to be disrespectful. Neither one of them were acceptable. 

Logan fiddled with his lighter, fighting the incredible urge to smoke. He sat indoors on purpose to keep from lighting one up, but the fact that Moreno still hadn’t arrived yet made his cravings nearly unbearable. Just as he was about to leave, the door to the cafe opened, and he saw Ricky Moreno step through the threshold and take the seat across from him.

“You ain’t JJ,” Logan said, leaning back in his seat. “How ya doin’, Rick?”

“Bien, y usted, Logan?” 

“Oh meeeee…I’m just _peachy_. Where’s your brother?”

Ricky removed his sunglasses, took a sip of water. He was moving strangely, like he was nervous or scared, and Logan noticed that he hadn’t brought any bodyguards with him.

“Dead,” Ricky said after he finished his drink. _Well, that’s certainly unexpected_. 

“My condolences. I’m assumin’ that you’ll be takin’ over the family business now, is that correct?”

“No.” Ricky shook his head. “I’m getting out.”

“Riigghhhtt. So...why did you come here to meet with me?”

“An angel spoke to me.”

“An angel.” Ricky had always been a little... _off_ , but this was getting into some territory Logan admittedly wasn’t fully prepared to deal with. 

“Sí,” Ricky said. “Or maybe it was a demon.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. This thing, whatever it was—it told you to speak to me?”

“My mother, she’s Mexicana, did you know? From the Yucatán.”

Logan blinked. “First you’re talking about angels and demons and now you’re talking about your mama. Rick, I’m havin’ a helluva time trying to follow what you’re sayin’ right now, pal—”

“Most of the people there, they’re cristianos now—católicos—but in the old days, they worshipped the old gods. My mother used to tell Juan and I stories about these gods when we were growing up in Guatemala. She said we’d be like the Hero Twins who vanquished the gods of death, Hun-Kame and Vucub-Kame. Of course, those were just stories, little things to get us through our days. But then an angel spoke to me, and I realized they weren’t just stories; they were real. The gods are real, all of them, and I see you for what you are, kindred of Hun-Kame.”

Then smoothly and without hurry, Ricky pulled out his piece—a simple, small glock—and pointed it at Logan. Gasps erupted in the cafe; a woman screamed and promptly fainted. 

“C’mon, what are you doin’, Rick?” Logan’s bodyguards were at the counter, waiting for his signal. They hadn’t pulled their guns out yet; didn’t want to make the guests freak out even further. “Put the gun down, Ricky. There’s a woman in here with her baby. Let’s not make a huge scene.” 

“It makes so much sense now,” Ricky said, pressing the barrel of the gun against Logan’s forehead. The metal was cold; Logan’s throat went dry. “So much sense why El Viejo called you ‘Hades,’ all those years ago, so much sense why you just _wouldn’t fucking die_ —” The shot rang by Logan's ear: loud, sharp and deafening, and Logan pressed his hands to his temples to ease the sudden vertigo that hit him. 

A sick cackle ripped out of Ricky's throat as he stood up. “Puta madre, even point blank? I wanted to see if you bleed like the rest of us, but nothing hits you. Pues, ni modo. I’ll see you in the Underworld, Hades, in the court of Hun-Kame.”

“ _Ricky_ —” 

The blood that hit Logan's face was a warm, pink mist that stank of iron. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air, and the sound of screaming children rang loudly in his ears. His heart pounded hard in his chest and his hands shook violently; the adrenaline pumping through his veins made everything look as if it were happening in slow motion. He saw the Grim Reaper walk towards Ricky’s lifeless body on the cafe floor, and heard the young man ‘tsk’ in disappointment. Then the Grim Reaper noticed him watching, winked, and disappeared. 

“Boss, you all right?”

“Yeah, Nikolai,” Logan said, his words sounding sluggish to his own ears. 

“Police will be here soon. We go now,” Nikolai said, trying to pull him out of the booth. 

“We need to stay,” Logan said, struggling to get his words out. “Cameras in the cafe. Will be suspicious otherwise.”

“But, Boss—”

“You weren’t involved, Nikolai. If they try to pressure you about anything else, lawyer up. You know the number for Dom Bufalino.” 

Logan heard sirens: one ambulance and at least two police vehicles. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, feeling some of the tension leave his body. His Rolex, he noticed, was covered in blood. 

“Sir, you can’t smoke in here—”

Of all the days he tried to quit...

“A man’s just blown his brains out in your establishment and you’re worried about me smoking?”

“You can’t smoke in here.” The owner was rattled; too rattled to be reasoned with. Just trying to find some semblance of control in an impossible situation. 

“Very well,” Logan sighed. He walked outside just as the police and ambulance were pulling up. 

“Sir…?” 

“I’m fine. Man you’ll be wanting is in there,” Logan said, lighting up a new cigarette. Annoyingly, his leg was starting to bother him again. 

“How did I _know_ I’d see you here?”

“Hello, Henry.” Logan didn’t bother to glance at the boy. Detective Henry Olsen had been a thorn in his side for about six months now, always chasing whatever lead he could back to Logan and his business dealings. So far, nothing had panned out for the young man: any and all evidence he found was circumstantial and never enough for a judge to grant a warrant. It made the kid salty and reckless and a miserable pain in the ass to deal with. 

“Think you’re going to get away with murder in broad fucking daylight now? Don’t count on it, fucker.”

Logan didn’t answer him, just continued to smoke his cigarette. He rubbed his thigh as it began to burn. He pulled out his phone, turned on the camera’s reverse function, and saw he was covered in blood. Fucking soaked. His suit was irrevocably ruined, too. He sighed again, leaning against the window of the cafe. He could see it now: press everywhere. Last thing he wanted was his name on the lips of every news anchor in the city. Bad for business.

He pulled out his planner from his back pocket: nothing else important on the docket today, which was good, because he had a feeling his day was about to get a good deal longer. He texted Johnny, let him know what was going on. 

“Mr. Black, I’m going to need you to come down to the station with me to answer some questions.” 

“Are you arresting me, detective?” Fuck, this was his third cigarette in the last fifteen minutes. He really, really, _really_ needed to slow down. 

“No. I need you to answer some questions.” 

“At the station.”

“Yes.” 

“Very well, Henry.” Logan dropped his cigarette to the ground, smashed the small butt with his foot. “Lead the way.” 


	4. Caduceus

“Henry, you fucked up.”

“C’mon, Cassie, I saw the opportunity to bring him in and I took it. Don’t be mad.” 

“Don’t ‘Cassie’ me, Henry. Remember who you’re talking to.” Yeah, he definitely fucked up.

“Sorry, ma’am.” 

She crossed her arms. Her normally-brown face was redder than a tomato. _Shit._ “God. We have nothing to pin on him. It’s all circumstantial—”

“He was right _there_ when Ricky Moreno—”

“I know! I know, goddammit. Which is another thing you fucked up! The paramedics didn’t even get a chance to look at him! ” She ran her hands through her hair. “God, Bufalino is going to skewer us.”

“He’s fine, ma’am. It’s not anything official, just a chance to get some leads is all, rattle him a little bit—”

“You have an hour. No more than that.”

“Thank you, ma’am. You won’t regret this, I promise.”

“Stop making promises you can’t be sure you’ll keep, detective. The clock is ticking now. Go.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Detective Henry Olsen never really grew up wanting to be a cop. He’d had a few run-ins with them at a young age for stealing things—shoplifting stuff like candy or small toys here and there. Nothing serious, really, but he’d been a troublemaker. So as a rule, cops annoyed him, or at least growing up they did. But then, high school graduation happened, and then college happened, and he majored in Criminal Justice after washing out of the nursing program, because he never really wanted to apply himself, and becoming a cop seemed to make sense. Financial stability, healthcare; it paid the bills, so he didn’t much care beyond that to start with. Now at twenty-seven, though, he was one of the youngest and most inexperienced detectives in the force, with a newfound drive and hunger to get the job done. Solving murders and sex crimes—shit, he finally felt like he was good at something.

  
  
And there was a bigger thing happening, too, now that Cassie Porter had been made DA: bringing down the city’s organized crime syndicates—and he was going to be the detective to make that happen. He’d tasted ambition and was making up for lost time.

Henry looked through the one-way mirror, sipped on his cup of instant coffee. In his reflection on the glass he saw his own youth and scowled. No wonder Cassandra still had trouble taking him seriously. Well, he’d show her; he’d show them _all_. 

“How’s our favorite boss doing?” he asked, staring through the glass at Logan Black. His white whale, caught momentarily. He wanted nothing more than to screw with the bastard’s head and watch him squirm. Black’s relation to the bodies found in the morning had been tangential, at best—but now _both_ Moreno brothers were dead, and Black had been present at the apparent suicide. So, nailing Black down like a cockroach to a cork board didn’t seem unreasonable, even if all it did was just get under the man’s skin. Eventually Henry would needle Black enough for him to make a genuine mistake, and then Henry would be the one to take him down. 

“Fine,” said Amy. “Didn’t talk except to ask for some water and if he could smoke.”

“Did you let him?”

Black was staring at him in return, like he could see him through the mirror. He was grinning too, the smug fuck. 

“You know how Gerry feels about the smell.” 

“Christ, Amy.” 

“Hey, don’t give me that attitude. I don’t make the rules, Henry.” 

He finished his coffee, shaking his head in frustration, grabbed his files. “Christ.”

“Luck!”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

He walked into the interrogation room slowly, casually. Tried to keep his body language friendly. 

“Mr. Black,” Henry said, sitting down across from the man. The Devil himself.

“Henry.” 

“How are you feeling?” 

Black rolled his shoulders, and Henry flexed his toes as a small twinge of fear made its way down his spine. At six feet, eight inches tall, Black was a large and powerfully-built man. Not lanky, but lean. His suit had been retrieved for evidence, so each time he moved, Henry could see large packs of muscle shifting underneath the fabric of his cotton t-shirt. No wonder he’d been recruited by the mob as an enforcer. Henry clenched his teeth to keep himself from audibly gulping. Not for the first time, he was grateful for the nine millimeter gun that sat holstered at his hip—although a part of him feared that wouldn’t do much to slow down Black. 

“Fantastic,” Black said, leaning back in his chair. He smiled, showing off impeccably white teeth. His smile was vicious, wolf-like. It made Henry’s skin crawl. “Itching for a smoke, though.”

“Can’t help you with that, Mr. Black. I do have a can of Copenhagen, if you’d like some. Nicotine is nicotine.” Henry fished out the tin from his back pocket. It was brand new. He’d never touch it again now.

“Haven’t dipped in years.”

“I imagine you started when you enlisted.” 

“First deployment. Helped with the stress.” Henry watched closely as Black carefully, almost delicately, took out a pinch of tobacco and placed it under his bottom lip. Now when Logan smiled, he kept his sleazy mouth closed. Good. “Sounds like you finally googled me, Henry, bravo.” 

Henry smiled, opening up the file he brought in. “Made it to Gunny in ten years. That’s pretty impressive, right?”

Black shrugged. “Depending on who you talk to. Sure.”

“Let’s see...two bronze stars, a navy cross, and a purple heart. Looks like you were going to go officer too, before that incident in your last deployment.” 

Black chuckled lightly, and it was a strange sound coming from such a large, violent man. “Yeah, been there, done that, and got the t-shirt for it too. You didn’t haul me all the way down here to talk about my military record. Get to the point already, kid.” 

“Juan Jose Moreno and an infant girl were found dead this morning at Steeley’s Warehouse.” 

“A baby?”

“That’s right. Just a couple months old.” Henry paused, seeing if he could gauge any sort of reaction from Black, but Black’s expression did not change at all—as if Henry had only just told him some banal fact about the weather and not that a significant rival had been murdered, along with a baby girl. How could a man with a heart be that cold? “ ‘Course, Ricky Moreno is now also dead, and you were there with him when he died. So you see, Mr. Black, I’m anxious to understand how this all connects. Hoping you can help me with that.”

“Aw, hell.” Black took his empty styrofoam water cup to his lips, spat in it. Henry felt his stomach churn. Dipping was something he occasionally indulged in, but he was definitely going to kick the habit for good after this. “Ricky told me his brother was dead,” Black said, leaning back in his chair and sprawling his long legs out. He seemed relaxed, and that irritated Henry. “Didn’t say anything about a baby.”

“So you knew JJ Moreno was dead and that didn’t make you nervous?”

“What, nervous like Ricky would pull out his glock and try to shoot me with it? Not particularly, no. The internal squabbling of the Morenos holds no interest for me. I figured JJ probably bit the dust from a drug overdose; it’s no secret the guy is a junkie. Or _was_ , rather. So Ricky showed up in his stead? So what? Didn’t matter to me, as long as we were able to...talk.” Black shifted in his seat, leaning further back until his chair hit the wall. Casually reclining, like a king. “Shame about the baby, though. That’s sad.” 

Henry wanted to laugh. As if a man like Black could ever care about a baby. Couldn’t even be bothered to try and _pretend_ to care. Not for the first time, Henry wondered how a man could be so cold; how he could snuff out any sense of humanity and empathy and just be a shell of a person, powered by greed and rage. Surely that’s what Logan Black was: you don’t get to the top of a criminal syndicate without doing horrible things along the way. Things that turn the soul to pitch, and make you into a monster among men. It wasn’t the serial killing of a depraved degenerate, to scratch an itch; it was the methodical domination and destruction of anyone who stood in his way. 

“So what were you two there to talk about?”

Black sighed, spit into the styrofoam cup once more. “Business.”

“What kind of business?”

“Oh, y’know. Property acquisitions, buyouts, et cetera.” 

“And then he blew his brains out.”

“Well, son, you have the CCTV footage.”

An image flashed before Henry’s eyes: a dead JJ Moreno, holding the body of a dead little girl. And this bastard was sitting in front of him, not a care in the world. _Fucker._ Henry didn’t care about either of the Moreno brothers’ deaths—that was inevitable; and after all, what’s two more dead criminals in the world?—but the little girl...that was cruelty on another level. It filled Henry with righteous anger, and his fingers twitched with the impulse to grab his weapon and use it. “You’re a real scumbag, Logan Black, you know that?”

“Definitely haven’t heard that one before.” 

“Don’t you bastards have some code of honor? And after all the bullshit foster homes you were in, not one shred of empathy for a _baby_ —”

“Hey now, sounds like you’re implyin’ somethin’ rather nefarious, there, Henry.” Now Black leaned forward, his facade of nonchalance cracked. There was rage in his cold eyes; a southern twang slipping into his words, a harsh edge coloring his voice that hadn’t been there before. A heart beat in his chest after all, it seemed; now all Henry had to do was plunge a knife into it and twist. 

“Just seems weird to me that with your fucked up childhood, kids wouldn’t be off limits to you. But I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” Henry had gotten his hands on the files; had seen the photos of bruising and scarring on Black and his siblings. The old man had been a raging alcoholic while the mother lived off of prozac. The foster parents that followed weren’t much better. Henry almost felt sympathy for the boy Logan Black was—he’d been small and defenseless, forced to endure harrowing abuse and neglect—but Henry could not feel anything but disgust for the man Logan Black had become. He was a wild dog now; no, worse, he was a rabid wolf. One that needed to be put down. 

“I’m just a businessman, kid.”

“Yeah, and so was your shitbag daddy, and look how he turned out? How long you spend locked in that basement, huh? Nine months? Big brother having to take care of your sister and the baby. Must’ve been hard. Just a little kid, eight years old—”

“Seven. I was seven. Listen, I ain’t impressed with your sleuthing, detective. Not like my past is a secret. We done here?” Black spit out the rest of his tobacco and checked his new plastic Timex watch, courtesy of Amy. The custom Rolex he had was now covered in blood and sitting in an evidence bag, and that fact alone gave Henry a sense of sadistic pleasure he relished, if only for a moment. Henry noticed that Black’s wrist trembled slightly, boiling anger just beneath the surface, and Henry placed his palm on top of his nine millimeter handle. He’d rattled Black well enough, apparently, doing what he’d set out to do, but that made Black immediately more dangerous. Once again, Henry wondered if a nine millimeter would even work to stop Black, when the man had survived much worse.

“Why, you got somewhere to be, Mr. Black?”

“No, but I want to go home. Unless, of course, you’re arrestin’ me.”

_I wish_. Henry clenched his jaw. “Not today, Mr. Black. You’re free to go. Thank you for your cooperation.” 

“Thanks for the dip.” 

“You go ahead and keep it.” 

Black stood, rolled his shoulders, and walked out without another word. 

  
  



	5. Cosmopolis

“Hello, darlin’.”

“Oh, it’s—it’s you again.”

“It’s me. Just like it’s you.”

There are moments throughout a man’s life where he, upon having time to properly reflect, wonders if he made the right choices. Not all of these choices are obviously life-changing, of course; they are the simple instances, oftentimes an innocuous decision that ripples across a pond, in a chain of causality. Logan Black stood, leaning back against the outside walls of the precinct, thinking about the choices that lead him to this moment, talking to Cassandra Porter’s daughter once again. 

“You look...different,” she said, and man, wasn’t that just a pot calling the kettle moment? No more hot little sparkly black dress; this time she wore jeans, chucks and an oversized ECU sweatshirt, looking very much like the college co-ed that she was. Her red curls were tied back into a loose ponytail and her big emerald eyes were gazing up at him, and he wondered, not for the first time, if she dyed her hair and wore contacts.

  
  
“So do you,” he said, and he smiled at her, a genuine smile, because damn, she was just so pretty and he couldn’t help himself even if he wanted to. 

“What are you doing here?” she asked, and her full lips curved up in a smile to mirror his own, though her narrowed eyes told him she was suspicious and on guard. Smart girl. 

“Oh, y’know, just catchin’ up with old friends. Waitin’ for my uber now.” He felt the urge to light a cigarette, but fought it. He wouldn’t smoke in front of her, he decided. He didn’t like her negative judgement. “What’s brought you here?”

“Bringing my mom some leftovers.”

“Well, ain’t that sweet of you.”

She got closer to him now, and once again he felt a twinge of surprise at her boldness. “What’s with the get-up? Didn’t take you for an atheleisure kind of man.”

“Hmm. You watch the local news later on, you might find out.”

“So you’re not going to tell me?”

“Don’t like to trouble pretty women with violent stories.”

This time she threw her head back and laughed, and he wondered what it would be like to kiss her neck, the hollow of her throat. He bet she would taste feminine and soft and divine. 

“I’m not some fragile little girl, Mr. Black,” and she was right next to him now, her head level with his chest, and if he leaned down just right, he could kiss her and send her into a fit if he wanted to. 

“Never said you were, darlin’.” 

“But you don’t think I can handle knowing the real reason you’re here. You’re pretty patronizing, you know; and I’m not your ‘darlin’’ or ‘sweetheart’ or whatever.” 

God, she was so cute, even as mad as she was right now. Maybe if he had met her sixteen years ago, he wouldn’t have volunteered to get shot at; wouldn’t have gotten blown up sky-high; wouldn’t have started painting houses for the Old Man. But that’s not what happened, and he was here now, and much too old and poisonous for a girl like her. Choices; causality. 

Fate. 

“What’s got you all riled up?”

“ _You._ ” She was poking him in the chest now, in his space and completely fearless, and he had to focus on not letting his jaw drop at her audacity. 

“Gettin’ pretty handsy with a man you don’t know. Oughta be more careful, especially ‘round here. Would probably be difficult to explain to your friends in there.” Dammit all, he wanted to touch her too; wanted to touch her about as much as he wanted to light up a cigarette. He did neither. 

“I know you plenty, Logan Black.” 

“Oh, do you now? What exactly do you know, hmm? Enlighten me.”

“I know enough.” The hand was splayed on his chest now, like she and him were lovers, and had been lovers for years. She looked regal in the orange light of the afternoon sun, and if he unfocused his eyes, he could see a platinum crown atop her head. _Nonsense_ , he told himself. _She’s just a girl_. A girl like any other girl, even if her looks were particularly striking. Yet she was throwing him off balance, and he was letting her, and damn, when was the last time he ever let anyone push and pull him around like that? _She’s just a girl and you’re only a man_.

Not some ancient god. A flesh and blood human man, who’s made choices and stands at the edge of hell’s gate every day. Soiled. Not a man she should have any business talking to or flirting with, and yet—

“Your momma tell you everything she does, everything she sees?” He was whispering, he realized. Was he angry with her? This didn’t feel like anger. Frustration, maybe. She was teasing him, and he wasn’t sure if he was a fan of it or not. 

“None of your business.”

“Well, then, same to you.”

They stared at each other, her green eyes giving away nothing, and again he felt the urge to kiss her. _Get a hold of yourself, you pervert._

The black BMW pulled up, and Logan could see his driver Misha eying the girl curiously. “That’s my ride.”

“Of course it is.”

“Tell you what,” Logan said, rolling his shoulders and grinning like a fool. “You come to the club tonight, we’ll have a real chat. Whatever you want to talk about. Whaddya say?”

“It’s a school night,” she said, but she was smiling too, the little hellion. 

“Didn’t stop you before,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. He could feel her looking at him, and could tell by Misha’s puzzled expression that he was still smiling like an idiot, despite everything. 

“Who is girl?”

“His wife, Misha.” Logan clutched his knees tightly at the sound of the voice. Damn Grim Reaper was in the car with him, right next to him in the back seat.

“Boss?”

“Just a girl, Misha. If you ever need to know, I’ll tell you.” 

“Wow, Your Grace, not even going to bother to introduce me to your driver? C’mon, don’t give me that look. Even when you were _mighty_ , that glower never worked on me. I’m Death itself, remember? What are you worried about—oh, the driver? He won’t notice a thing. Speak your mind, Hades.”

Suddenly and as if by command, Logan felt a sharp, stabbing sensation pierce through his chest. 

_Fuck,_ he thought. “What did you do to me?” 

Death rolled his pale eyes, crossed his skinny arms. “Just reignited what was left of your immortal soul. It’s going to hurt for a while. It’s supposed to.” 

“I feel like I’m having a fucking heart attack.” Logan held his chest. It really, really hurt; so much so he thought his heart was going to burst. God, he couldn’t breathe. 

“Relax, it’s just a panic attack. You numbed yourself for so long, anything beyond rage is going to hurt like a bitch. Sorry, Boss. It is what it is.”

“Fuck you, you little shit!” If he had the strength, he would’ve lunged towards the kid and choked him out, but pain and panic kept him seated in place even as a nightmare engulfed him.

Bullets whizzing through the air; the acrid smell of gunpowder. The heat; the unrelenting heat of the sun’s rays bearing down across the desert like a concentrated laser. The heaviness of his flak and kevlar helmet. 

The lieutenant was dead. Just one squad of twelve men left. Ambush—they’d been ambushed. Blood stained the walls and flowed through the streets in small rivers. He carried a private on his back. 

Heavy. Everything was so heavy. He could barely move. He set the kid down—the young man was only eighteen, looking up at him with doe eyes, frightened beyond anything. 

“Gunny, am I gonna die?”

“No,” Logan said, not knowing what else to say. Kid’s leg had been blown off; Logan had already placed two tourniquets on him, and he was so pale. And his eyes—“Hansen. _Hansen_. Look at me, private.”

But Private Hansen couldn’t look at him anymore, because he was dead. 

Fuck. _Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck._

Logan screamed, as loud as he could, so hard his lungs burned, all the while Death sat beside him, motionless. 

“Like I said, Boss, it was going to hurt you way more than it was going to hurt me.”

And like that he was back in the car, clutching his chest. “Just kill me already,” Logan breathed, desperate. The pain was unbearable, traveling out from a singular dense point in his chest to the rest of his body. He was right on the edge of vomiting. 

“We’ve been over this before, Boss. I’m not here to kill you; I’m here to set you free. But you’ve dug a very deep hole for yourself and getting out of it is going to hurt. The human heart can only take so much darkness before it withers, so be glad you’re only mostly human.”

“Fuck you,” Logan spat. “I didn’t ask for you to come into my life and...and turn me into _this_.”

“Ah, so you’re acknowledging that I’m real. Progress.”

“I’ll acknowledge whatever the fuck you want if you’ll just take this poison out of me.”

“Boss, Boss, Boss—it’s not poison. It’s pain. And that pain is _yours_ ; it’s not mine to give you or take from you. It’s yours to acknowledge and to move past.”

Logan leaned forward and gagged, simultaneously relieved and disturbed when nothing came up. “Why did you do this to me?” he asked, feeling completely drained. 

“I told you already, Boss: the clock is ticking, and we need you to wake up.” 


	6. Amo

The music was loud, pulsing, and overwhelming. If you stood in one place for too long, you could feel the sound waves reverberate through your body. Young couples on the dance floor pressed their hips together in a garish pantomime of sex. 

Logan stood in the back by the bar, rubbing his temples. He was stone cold sober at the moment and hating every minute of it. No Vicodin, no nicotine patches, not even a sip of light beer; he wasn’t on any ibuprofen, either, so his leg was smarting something fierce. Had to be done, though—as far as Logan saw it, quitting everything cold turkey was the only way to keep from seeing the Grim Reaper.

The latest... _episode_ in the car was bad and lasted longer than he was comfortable to admit. The doors of the vehicle started melting before his very eyes, turning into a chariot wreathed in black and blue flames. Ghostly apparitions faded in and out of his vision: children, animals, adults. It was fucked up; _he_ was fucked up. When he finally arrived at his penthouse, he saw that Bobo appeared to only have one large eye in the center of his head, and man, _that_ sight did nothing to slow down his painfully accelerating heart rate. Logan all but ran into the bathroom to splash water on his face in a desperate attempt to return back to reality, and instead startled at his own reflection: he saw his cruel father staring back at him, and punched the mirror as a reflex. Only when the pain of glass shards slicing his knuckles subsided, did he finally stop seeing the shadow of the Grim Reaper next to him. A full on psychotic episode. A freak out that’d get him committed. _Jesus_. He was a boss; he couldn’t be having panic attacks, or hallucinating. It’d get him killed. The booze and the cigarettes had to go...and the Vicodin too. 

_Thirty-six years of hard living finally taking its toll_. Logan pressed his molars together, annoyed. 

He wanted a little taste of what his club patrons experienced, just to relax, but it was becoming clearer and clearer that he was too old to enjoy the atmosphere without being somewhat inebriated. He shook his head and made his way up to _Pandemonium_ ’s third level, which was the VIP section, and where he first saw the Grim Reaper the previous night. The music in here was slower and not as loud; a suggestion to dance more than a requirement. The black, leather-bound booths provided privacy for important conversations and business dealings. Right now, they would provide the privacy for a much-needed nap.

  
  
With all the grace of a new-born colt, Logan collapsed onto the soft, quilted leather couch of his personal booth. 

“Boss?” He cracked an eye open. Not one moment of peace today. Not one. 

“What is it Johnny?” 

“There’s a girl here that says she’s s’posed to see you.”

_Shit_. The girl. The damn girl. Twenty-four hours, two interactions, and Stella Porter seemed to be at the fulcrum of all the forces pulling on his last threads of sanity. 

She appeared from behind Johnny, suddenly and seemingly out of nowhere, dressed in a tight, strapless red dress that made Logan's blood turn molten and his throat run dry. Not the college co-ed anymore. _Jesus_. 

“Is this a bad time, Mr. Black? You, uh, seem kind of busy.”

He blinked several times, unsure of what to say. He hadn’t felt this powerfully attracted to someone in a long time—or ever, if he were being honest. 

“Not busy at all, Stella,” he said, slowly sitting up. “Have a seat.”

  
  
She sat across from him, demurely pressing her legs together, like she was afraid he might try to sneak a perverted look up her skirt. _Maybe so_ , he thought, miserable. _It’s not going to happen_. Messing around with the DA’s daughter was not a good idea for a number of reasons. But, looking at her up and down as she sat there, challenging him with that knowing twinkle in her eye, he’d never felt so hungry. _She’s going to ruin me_. 

“Would you like a drink?” he asked, handing her the cocktail menu. “My treat.”

“Just a Shirley Temple. School night.” 

“Add a water to that as well,” Logan said nodding to Johnny, who took the order promptly and left quickly, retreating back into the shadows of the VIP lounge. “So,” he said, leaning back against the couch and stretching his arms out. She smiled.

“So,” she said. 

“You have questions.” 

“I’m curious about you.” She crossed her legs, though he pointedly did not look down. 

“Gathered that much. Still not sure why.” 

Johnny came back with the water and Shirley Temple, which neither of them touched. 

“You’re very mysterious, Mr. Black. No social media, and only a couple pictures of you online.”

He chuckled. “I’m flattered that you tried to find me.” Which was true, but the revelation also set him on edge. No matter how attractive she was, no matter how much he wanted to touch her dark brown skin, he had to remember that she was Cassandra Porter’s daughter, and that made her a threat. 

“Don’t be. It’s standard practice for me when a man says he’s dangerous. Why were you at the station today?”

Now she picked up her drink, her challenge set. She re-crossed her legs, and his eyes darted down for half a second. She smiled around her straw. _Caught_. His tie suddenly felt very tight, but he clamped down on the urge to pull at it. Instead, he matched her gesture, and took a sip of his water. 

“Business partner offed himself right in front of me this morning, in a cafe,” he said, watching her carefully, gauging her response. No obvious reaction that he could see. _Good bearing_ , he thought, then shook his head. His memories of being in the military were all some variation of not-good, and he hated that military-related thoughts had been coming up more and more frequently within the last twenty-four hours. 

“Something wrong?”

“No. Just a weird thought that popped into my head is all. Anyway, that’s why I was there. Detective Henry Olsen wanted to question me. Maybe you know him? Scrawny kid, looks like he’s real fun at parties.”

“I’m sure everyone is scrawny to you.” She laughed, putting her drink down. “Yeah, I know Henry. He and I sort of grew up together. Dork’s had a major crush on me for years now.”

“Can’t blame him for that,” Logan said, eyeing her. At that moment he put his glass down, and she followed suit, so that their knuckles briefly touched. He leaned back, smiled softly at her. “Seems like a good kid. Wouldn’t write him off if I were you.”

“Please. He’s a cop.”

Logan furrowed his brows, bemused. “Your momma is the DA.”

“Exactly, Mr. Black. And she’s the only cop I can stand in this city. I know for a fact that the chief beats his wife. At least half the guys on the force are domestic abusers, maybe more.”

The wheels in his head were spinning out of control. He wasn’t sure whether to get up and leave or to sit next to her and pull her in for a kiss. _Maybe she’s just saying what she wants you to hear_. For what? A quick lay? Not like he’d spill important information in the middle of—

_No. Don’t go there_. 

“He’s not your type, then,” Logan said, surprising himself with just how raspy he sounded. 

“No, he’s not. He’s boring and lame,” she said, standing up. She walked right between his legs, and he was so shocked at her boldness that he barely had time to register when she sat on his lap, her thighs snug and warm around his hips. He huffed out a shaky breath; he had never been more grateful for the booth's privacy side paneling than now. “And you’re not,” she finished, lacing her soft, long fingers behind his neck. 

“You’re bold,” he said, slowly placing his hands on her waist. He was shaking. _Fucking embarrassing._

She smiled, leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “And you’re trembling. Am I making you nervous, Mr. Black?” 

_Fuck yes you are_ , he thought. But he couldn’t admit that, so instead he kissed her neck and that earned him a lovely sigh as she scooted closer to him. He was dimly aware that their whole display could still easily be gawked at. “You want to take this somewhere else?” he asked, taking in the smell of her. Add lilac to his long list of dependencies. God, he was a mess. 

She sat back from him, looking him in the eyes. “It’s a school night, Mr. Black.” But she was smiling. He grabbed her hand, and man, _that_ particular contact made his cheeks heat up like a teenage boy with a crush. _It’s nothing_ , he thought. _She’s young, she’s horny. You’re horny. Just get it out of your system._ For fuck’s sake, he was only a man at the end of the day. Danger to each other be damned, they’d both apparently caught a fever that needed to run its course. 

In the BMW, she rubbed his bad leg with the lightest of touches, and his hormone-addled brain removed the dull pain he’d been feeling in it since the morning. His fingers absent-mindedly ran through her curls. If Misha thought the sight of his boss getting handsy with a woman in the back of the car was strange or out of character, he didn’t say anything. 

Her clever hands found their way to his groin about five minutes into the drive, touching him _just so_ through the fabric. He looked down at her, only to find that she had a mischievous, wicked grin on her face. 

“Misha,” Logan said, not taking his eyes off her as he traced his thumb and forefinger down her jaw. He still hadn’t kissed her on the mouth yet, he realized. 

“Yes, Boss?”

“Hurry up.” 

He held her hand as they took the elevator to his penthouse. Opening the door to his home, he placed his palm at the small of her back and kissed her shoulder. She spun away from him playfully. None of his ugly goons were in sight; good, Johnny did his job and told them to clear out on time. He undid his tie and hung up his suit jacket, toeing off his shoes and socks. She was somewhere fluttering around his penthouse; he could hear her soft footsteps walking this way and that. It occurred to him then that there was a woman in his home, which was a rare thing, and a surge of panic ran through him. Was his place dirty? No, no. Years of being in the military and a staff noncommissioned officer had made him fastidious. And he paid professionals to clean on top of that. Would she find his personal tastes in furniture eccentric or plain? Jesus, should he offer her a drink?

  
  
“Mr. Black, what’s taking you so long?” he heard her call from his bedroom. She found that well enough on her own. He looked down at his hands, which were trembling. What the hell? _She’s just a girl_ , he thought. He wasn’t inexperienced, so why was she making him so nervous?

  
  
He walked purposefully to his room, stopping just inside of the doorway. She was sitting on the edge of his bed, waiting. She raised her eyebrows and opened her legs slightly, and he took this as his cue to move forward. He knelt in front of her, which put his head level with hers.

  
  
He eyed her mouth, noticing that her lips were slightly parted, and went in for the kiss he’d been wanting since meeting her. It was a soft kiss, short and sweet, but it left his mouth tingling. He moved back, reading her reaction, and then felt her smooth fingers wrapping around his neck to pull him back in. Her lips were full and soft against his, and kissing her filled him with a warmth he hadn’t realized he’d been starving for. She ran her fingers through his hair, down his neck and shoulders. He must’ve made a sound, a pathetic groan, because he heard her laugh softly as he moved to kiss down her collar bone.

  
  
An intoxicating thrill began to overtake his senses. He had found the small zipper to her dress and was making quick work of it. Pulling the top portion of the garment down exposed her breasts, which he immediately began to kiss, turning her nipples into hard peaks with his tongue. He heard her curse and smiled against her skin. His cock pulsed hard with blood in his pants, begging to be touched. He ignored it.

  
  
“Lie back,” he said, placing his palm flat on her stomach. Mercy of mercies, she listened. He removed what was left of her dress, and felt his cock twitch when he saw that she had worn no underwear at all. God, he could pass out just from the sight of her naked body alone. He opened her legs wider, kissing the insides of her thighs as he circled with light touches around her pussy. She was squirming already, which was fun to see. And she was visibility wet, which just made his cock more miserable.

“ _Logan_ ,” she warned, as frustrated as she was aroused. He grinned at her, finally licking up and down her folds, and my, did she taste _glorious_. He gently swirled his tongue around her clitoris, paying attention to her reaction as he slid one finger into her, and then two, and proceeded to fuck her with them. He saw her back arch, felt her pussy pulse around his fingers as he licked the soft folds of her vulva. She cursed again, and he could feel her heartbeat accelerating, see the tension in her thighs. 

“No, wait,” she breathed, “stop.”

He froze. “Stop?”

She looked down at him, eyes lidded and heady with desire. “Your mouth and fingers are nice, but I want your dick in me, Logan. Take off your clothes already and fuck me.” Stella Porter was nothing if not forward. He saw the challenge in her eyes, and he smirked. Oh, he'd fuck her, all right. "Quit staring at me and hurry up."

He chuckled. “Yes, ma’am."

He didn’t bother with unbuttoning his shirt; just pulled the damn thing off over his head like it didn’t have long sleeves, probably wrecking it in the process. He didn't care. Next came his belt, pants, and boxer briefs, and his throbbing, aching cock was finally free. She reached for her purse on the bed and pulled out a condom packet, scrambling over to him. Her hands wrapped around his shaft and she pumped him quickly and skillfully a few times. His eyes fluttered shut as she rolled the condom on, pulling him back with her onto the bed. Without quite knowing how he got there, he was on his back, and she was on top, guiding him in until she sat all the way down onto him with a satisfied sigh. He’d been in this position before with her. 

_Funny how dreams work_ , he thought. And goddamn, he couldn’t believe he’d gone without sex for so long. What was wrong with him? 

She was smiling too, making fun little sounds every time she bounced on him. He held her hips in place for a moment, pushing up into her as she rubbed her clit with her fingers, and the pleasure he saw on her face almost undid him then and there. 

“Fuck,” she gasped. “Logan, you feel good.”

He laughed, flipping their positions, enjoying the surprised squeak she made as he laid her on her back. “Same to you, darlin’,” he said, kissing her. She was a good kisser, just like he thought she’d be. He liked that. He noticed her hands had moved down to his ass now, and how she moved her hips up in tandem with his, and he liked that, too. He could feel her getting close, which was good, because he knew he wasn’t going to be able to last much longer, and he desperately wanted to be a good lay for her. 

Her fingernails dug into his back and she stiffened, and he felt her inner walls pulse and clamp around him. _That’s it_ , he thought. _Come for me._ She said a litany of curses, which only made her more attractive to him, because he knew he was the reason for her lost composure. She came, raking her nails down his back, crying his name, and he had never felt so damn proud. Now that she was satisfied, he allowed himself to let go too, feeling his orgasm blaze through him with the intensity of an electric shock as he pumped himself into her. “Stella,” he panted into her neck, losing himself in her. Then it was done.

He rolled onto his back, so as not to crush her, breathing like he had just finished running a race. 

“Holy shit,” she said, then started laughing. “I mean. Wow.”

He looked at her, puzzled as to what her laughter meant. Couldn’t have been that bad—he felt her orgasm. Right? Now he wasn’t sure. “What’s got you so tickled,” he asked, pulling the condom off and tying it up to throw into the waste bin by his bed. 

“Do you know how _bad_ college boys are at sex?” she asked. She sounded giddy. 

“Can’t say I do, darlin,’” he said, still confused and increasingly uncomfortable. 

“You’re the first man who’s ever made me come,” she said, grinning widely at him. 

He blinked several times and then realized what she was saying, and felt like an idiot for not catching her meaning earlier. “Oh. Well. Glad you enjoyed it. Was fun for me, too.” He pulled her to his chest, and she snuggled closer, and again he felt like they were old lovers.Now that they had had sex, he expected his attraction to her to dissipate, as had been the case with his prior hookups. But, alas, no—he wanted her more. Could probably go another round, if she wanted to. _It’s just sex,_ he told himself, shutting his eyes. _Get a grip_. 

“Logan?”

“Hmm?” he said, slowly nodding off to sleep.

“Can we do it again?”

_This girl is so dangerous_ , he thought, gazing down into her big green eyes. His cock was already, and rather surprisingly, getting hard at the mere suggestion. How could he say no? “Anythin’ you want, darlin.’” 

It was a strange night for him. She'd found someone who actually paid attention to her body, and he guessed that she was eager to get off as many times as she could with him. Her appetite was voracious....which was good, because so was his. They’d sleep for what seemed like only a few seconds at a time, before one or the other would start a session all over again. Even trying to clean up in the shower was a half-hearted endeavor, because they each could not stop trying to arouse each other with teasing touches and kisses. When they were done showering, finally managing to rinse off their sweat, he was hard and ready again, and she all but jumped on him, hooking her legs around his waist. At one point he’d lost track of how many times they fucked, each time trying to burn out what seemed to be a mutual addiction.

  
  
Only in the early hours of the morning did he finally, completely fall asleep, with her small frame tucked against him. When he awoke that afternoon, bleary-eyed, exhausted, and sore in places he’d quite frankly forgotten about, she was gone, and he felt a strange pull in his chest. Disappointment? He wasn’t sure. She got what she wanted and she left, and that was that. _It was just sex_ , he told himself. God, he couldn’t have really wanted her to stay, right? Cook her _breakfast?_ They fucked, got each other out of their respective systems, and that was the end of it. But then why...why did he feel so hollow? _Jesus._ To top it off, his leg was back to radiating its dull ache. He groaned. 

“This is why you don’t do one-night stands, you idiot,” he told himself, rubbing his temples. 

“Hiya, Boss. Rough night?”

  
  
His blood went cold at the sound of the voice, and he slowly lifted his head to see the Grim Reaper sitting on the edge of his television stand. 

_No_ , Logan thought, panicked. _No, no, no, no_. 

“We need to talk.”


	7. Achlys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added some things after going over and re-reading this one. I usually make small edits after I post a chapter because sometimes errors are easier to see on the site than on my word processor. But here I wanted to add more. So if the chapter seems a little longer than before, that's why.

He opened his eyes to fog and darkness. The ground beneath his sandaled feet was cool and wet. Sticky, muddy. It stank, too—like a bog, foul and rotten. As his eyes adjusted to the low light and he looked down at himself, he saw that he was once again clad in robes and adorned with jewelry. The low, aggressive snarl of what sounded like a large bear drew his attention forward; and there he saw a beast, cloaked in shadow. Three heads, each with a pair of glowing ember eyes, growled in unison at him. 

As the creature moved closer, it became clear to Logan that the animal was a dog. A _massive_ dog, as big as a two-story house, growling with the features of a canine on each of its snarling heads. Logan placed his hands in the air, backing away slowly. “N-nice doggy.”

As he retreated, the beast stepped forward, shaking the ground beneath their feet, disturbing the thick fog around them. He continued to retreat until the damp bark of a tree pressed against his back, locking him in place with fear. Slowly, almost gingerly, the great beast padded forward until it was close enough for Logan to feel the body heat radiating from its jet-black fur. 

“Nice doggy,” he said, his voice nearly breaking. “Please don’t eat me. Please.”

It sniffed the air, leaning its three heads closer to him, and he froze as one of its wet noses—the size of his entire torso—pressed against him and inhaled his scent. He could feel tears streaming down his cheeks in hot rivers, could hear his breathing become increasingly erratic and terrified. His heart beat rapidly and painfully like a rabbit’s, threatening to break through his chest. He hadn’t felt this kind of fear since he was a child, and its potency burned his skin like steam. 

The hound sniffed him again and yelped, almost as if in question, and Logan felt the urge to faint as one of its gigantic tongues licked his scalp. _Please don’t eat me_ , he thought, delirious. _Please don’t eat me._ It made a sound then, one of recognition, and as it laid its massive heads down in front of him in what looked like supplication, its glowing ember eyes faded to a soft brown color. The eyes of a dog looking at its master. 

“Nice doggy,” he said again, collapsing against the tree. He couldn’t lift his arms or turn his head; every muscle in his body felt completely drained as he stared at the curious, gigantic animal in front of him. “You’re not going to eat me, are you?” 

The dog blinked, a look of confusion crossing its three faces. Its middle snout nudged him gently and he folded over on top of it, completely overtaken by fear and no longer in control of his body. The animal whined; one of its other heads licked him again. He shuddered. 

“Ah, there you are, Boss. I see you’ve become reacquainted with Cerberus.” 

At the mention of its name, the animal wagged its massive tail, creating a gust of chilling wind that sent goosebumps trailing up Logan’s arms. 

“Cerberus,” Logan said, hesitantly reaching to touch the beast’s nearest snout. Its fur was surprisingly soft. “God.”

“No god. Just a hound that misses its master.”

“And you’re Thanatos. Death Incarnate.”

“Bingo, Boss.” Cerberus, Thanatos, Hades. Mythology, come to life. It was too much. It wasn’t real, couldn’t be. Just some nightmare, a fucked up hallucination of a class he took in college. Conjuring up mythic figures that he’d learned about in his classics elective—divine punishment, and probably well-deserved. “I’ve completely lost my mind.” He laughed, though the sound was not amused nor pleasant. 

“Tch. C’mon, Boss. We’ve not got much time here before the Furies arrive, let’s go.” Death Incarnate was dressed differently now, in robes similar to Logan’s own. His silver hair fell down to his shoulders, slick and shining like mercury. Black, feathered wings folded behind his heavily-muscled back, and in the low light of the cavern, they sparkled with stars. He moved with fluid grace, though he was easily twelve feet tall now, nearly as tall as the damn hell-beast. 

“Before you ask, I got them from my mother.”

“Er. Got what?”

“My wings. You always ask about them.”

“Oh,” Logan said, hoping that if he would play along with his hallucination, it would end more quickly. The 'Hades' nickname given to him during his enforcer days had turned into a full-blown fever dream and he was just going to have to sweat it out...and probably see a psychiatrist about it, too. 

They stepped through a black gate that shuddered closed behind them. The three-headed beast barked sadly as they continued on their path. 

“Back to denying what’s happening right in front of your eyes again?”

“You’re not real.” 

“Glad to see your rigidity of thought hasn’t changed, Boss.”

The giant man in front of him was Death Incarnate. And he was Hades, God of the Dead. Yes. He’d sweat out this hallucination, but not before flexing his authority—might as well enjoy himself. Right? 

“You’re damn mouthy for someone who’s supposed to be my subordinate.” 

Thanatos looked over his shoulder at him, nonplussed. “Come now, _Lord Hades_ , before the punishment for your numerous misdeeds arrives, and the cycle repeats itself all over again.” 

Hearing the title ‘Lord Hades’ sent a sharp spear piercing directly through Logan’s skull. The urges to faint and/or vomit both hit him simultaneously, and he was forced to brace himself against the cave wall. 

“Punishment? Am I...am I dead?” he asked. This could definitely be hell. He certainly felt sick—and it wasn’t like he hadn’t earned his place in perdition. But, then again, the gigantic hell-beast probably would’ve ripped him apart already if that were the case...right?

“No, though if you dally, you soon might be. C’mon.” 

“Where are we going?”

“To see your son.”

_Wait._ Logan shook his head, unsure of what he had just heard. “Son? But I don’t—I don’t have any—”

“You do, in fact, have a son. Hard won, too. He wants to see you, messy and human as you are.”

Logan wanted to continue the argument, but then he reasoned that it was pointless to argue with a hallucination, so he dropped it. He was God of the Dead, and he had a son, and he was walking through the Underworld with Death Incarnate. Yes. Logan rubbed his temples; he was _definitely_ going to have to be committed somewhere. 

“Not much farther until we reach the Styx. I’ll pay your fare this time. But remember that you owe me.”

“I still have to pay a fare even though I’m supposedly the lord of this place?”

“Correct.”

In the distance, he heard screaming—enraged voices, distinctly female, and he felt his fear beginning to return. 

“Uh...what was that?”

“Dammit all,” Thanatos swore, turning around. “They’re here already.”

“Who’s here?”

“My meddling sisters. Get behind me.” 

From darkness, they emerged: three women dressed in black and red leather. Their clothes were modern, from what Logan could tell; not the restricting, unwieldy robes that he found himself in. Very modern, in fact—like something one would see at the Met Gala, if the theme were dominatrix fetish gear. They each carried whips covered in barbs.

One stepped forward, a wicked smile splitting across her sharp features. “Thany, look what you’ve brought for us.”

“Alecto,” Thanatos said, holding his arm out. In his hand, a scythe appeared. Logan’s hands twitched, wishing for a weapon to materialize out of thin air for him too. But none came, because he wasn’t a god, let alone _Hades_ , _Lord of the Dead_ —he was just a man. A _human_ man: useless, terrified, and above all, _fragile_. 

“You thought you could sneak the Master in by dressing yourselves in the old way.”

“It was worth a shot.”

“He smells even fouler than usual,” said the sister behind Alecto. “The metal smell of red blood.” The sister in the middle stayed silent, watching him with cool, red eyes. 

“A poor, wrathful copy of the one who sleeps on the throne, wouldn’t you agree, Tisiphone?” 

“A murderer deserving of punishment, Alecto,” said Tisiphone, nodding and stepping forward. Her features were the sharpest, like she had been carved from obsidian. “Look at how small he is. How... _mortal_. It’s disgusting.” She cracked her whip towards Logan, though Thanatos managed to shield him from the blow by spinning his scythe. 

“Now, now. My dear sisters, there’s no use in trying to torture him if he is not dead.” 

“You should’ve kept him up on the surface to play your game, Than.” Tisiphone cracked her whip again and Alecto laughed. “You know what he’s done. The punishments he deserves.”

“The Prince wanted to see him.”

The one in the middle broke her silence, keeping her face unnervingly neutral: “The son of a king and queen no longer capable of acting in accordance with their duties has no authority over us.” Her gaze was probing, piercing unlike anything he had ever seen, and he was forced to avert his eyes to the ground. “Yes, look down,” she continued, malice dripping from her words. “You are debased and pathetic, unfit to wear those rings that now adorn your fingers. All for that boy. Hmph.” 

“Megaera, you know this is his last chance,” said Thanatos. “The Fates have run out of patience and will no longer be lenient toward our cause. The shadows of Poseidon and Zeus wreak havoc upon the world—”

“What should we, who reside in Chthonia, care for the misery the Olympians cause upon the surface?”

“The other pantheons have begun to notice. It will mean another war.” 

“ _They_ are the ones who made the pact! _They_ are the ones who mocked the Fates,” Megaera shouted, pointing up above. “It is not our responsibility to reunite their aspects. Chthonia was here before the humans and before the Olympians, and here it will remain until primordial Chaos decides otherwise. Now,” she continued, staring at Logan once again. His ears were ringing; his skin felt hot. “Give him to us.”

“I can’t do that,” said Thanatos. 

“We won’t ask nicely again, Than,” said Tisiphone. “You brought this filth here.”

“On orders from the Prince.”

They laughed in unison. “The Prince, who is the cause of all this,” said Tisiphone. 

“Y-yes,” Thanatos sighed. “Yes indeed. Yet he is still the Prince. And this...man, is our Lord.”

“Seems like the Prince wants his father punished, then, for you to bring him here. Like a fool. You should’ve kept him on the surface, Than.”

Logan watched as the three of them circled around both he and Thanatos, surrounding them. _Shit, shit, shit, shit,_ he thought, desperately wishing once again that he had a weapon, a stick— _anything_ to defend himself from the ten-foot tall furies waiting to tear him limb from limb. 

“Aww, look, he’s afraid,” said Tisiphone, tutting her tongue against her teeth. “Poor little man, so scared of the punishment you’ve earned.”

“Tisiphone, he is your _King_ ,” Thanatos said, his voice tinged with warning. 

“The _King_ sits on the throne, asleep,” said Maegera. “ _He_ ,” she continued, pointing at Logan with her whip, “is only a man. And one deserving of punishment. Ladies.”

Logan heard the whip crack before he felt the sting of its leather against his neck. It wrapped around his throat, choking him and cutting into his skin. There was a slight pull and he landed hard on his back onto the marshy ground. As the seconds passed, the whip grew tighter, and he tried to claw at the sharp cord winding around his throat to no avail. Distantly, he heard the sounds of metal clashing against leather, the flapping of wings, and the drawing of desperate breaths. As his vision tunneled into darkness, those sounds turned into the distinct yelling of his father; the throwing of glass bottles; the cries of his little brother; until at last the only light he could see was a sliver of bright yellow underneath a locked door.

The basement was cold. It was always so cold; the three of them had to bundle together to keep warm. ‘Basement time’ started as a timeout—“Much needed discipline,” according to his father, and then it slowly became more than that, until they were living there, like rats instead of children. Mom would come down briefly and give them cold eggs and cereal for breakfast. Peter would beg for another hug before she’d leave, and she’d acquiesce once or twice.

“I’ll get you out of here soon,” she’d say, touching Logan’s cheek. “But you need to be strong for Peter and Sofia. Can you do that for me, baby?”

Over time the yelling got worse. Eventually she stopped coming down at all, instead putting their meals at the top of the stairs. Mom was pregnant again, and too weak to do anything for them. The yelling got worse. Sofia was coughing more. 

“Where’re you goin’, Big Brother?” 

“I’m gettin’ us out of here, Pete. Sofie needs medicine. Aww, c’mon now, don’t cry. Why you cryin’, Pete?”

“Daddy’s gonna eat you.”

That was the threat, the thing that always made them stay put, even if the door was unlocked, as it seemed to be now. Logan had heard that line, had believed it once, too, just like Peter, but he was older now—seven. A big kid, with big kid responsibilities, and his little brother was three, so of course he was still scared of being eaten. But Logan wasn’t scared, no sir. He had to set the example and be strong. He could do it. He could. “Dad just likes to be scary for fun. If he was gonna eat us he would’ve done it already, y’know.”

“It’s not fun when he’s scary.”

Logan didn’t know what to say to that, so he just said: “Dad’s not gonna try to eat me.” 

It wasn’t the first time or the last time he’d be wrong about something relating to his father. 

As he walked up the stairs to the basement door, taking slow, ginger steps, the yelling got louder, until he could feel warm breath and spit landing on his face. 

“WHAT IS YOUR NAME, RECRUIT?”

He was shaking. He was eighteen years old again. A drill instructor, a full head shorter than him, but commanding and frightening nonetheless, was screaming right into his ear.

“My name—”

“This recruit— SAY THIS RECRUIT!” Another one descended on him, the platoon sergeant, so that now there were two D.I.’s screaming obscenities at him. “YOU DISGUSTING PIECE OF TRASH!

“ **SAY ‘MY NAME’ AGAIN** —”

“Aye, sir! My name is—”

“ _ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO SAY ‘MY’—ARE YOU AN INDIVIDUAL_?” 

“No, sir!”

“THEN WHY ARE YOU STILL SAYING ‘MY,’ RECRUIT?” 

“This recruit’s name is—”

“ **I TOLD YOU TO SAY ‘MY NAME,’ AGAIN, RECRUIT!** ”

The entire staff was on him now, all three hats, forcing him in turn to say or do one thing one moment, and then punishing him for saying or doing _that very thing_ the next moment. The greatest of games: contradicting each other’s commands so that there was no right answer; failure and humiliation were the only options. Tears were threatening to fall from his eyes, and though he kept them in, the D.I.s immediately noticed. They always, always noticed. 

“ARE YOU _CRYING_?”

“ _YOU HAVE NO BEARING AT ALL, RECRUIT!_ ”

“ **WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU’RE IN A PLATOON AND HAVE TO FIGHT?** ”

“ARE YOU GOING TO _CRY_?”

“ _STAFF SERGEANT ALENKO ASKED YOU A QUESTION!_ ”

“ **CRY MORE!** ” 

“Aye, sir!”

The tears were streaming down his face now and he couldn’t control them. He was at Private First Class Hansen’s funeral, on crutches, so it was impossible for him to present the flag to Hansen’s family. His youngest brother, Will, was there, even though he hadn’t known Hansen at all. Had the audacity to dress in his Army blues, newly commissioned Army lieutenant bars on his shoulder boards, and act like he wasn’t a ghoul committing a massive faux pas for doing so, too. 

After the funeral was over, Logan stayed behind to pay his respects to the eighteen year kid old who senselessly lost his life for a useless, endless war, long after the Hansen family had left. Thing is, Will stayed behind with him, and damn, that just pissed him off even more. _How dare he?_ “What are you still doing here, Will?”

“I wanted to make sure you were okay. Sofie says you’ve been acting weird since you got back, and I didn’t want you to go through this alone—”

“I’m fine, _sir_.” 

“Oh, come on now, Logan.”

He turned around, not bothering to hide the rage in his voice. “No, _you_ come on. You didn’t know this kid or watch him die, and yet you stand here in your uniform, like he was your brother in arms. Did you get the attention you wanted, Will? Did you get all the ‘thank you for your services’ that you’ve been cravin’ since gettin’ into West Point?”

“ _Jesus_ , Logan—”

“Fuck off, Will.” 

It started to rain. The drops were fat, hitting hard against the headstones. “Fine,” Will said. “Have it your way.”

The rain fell harder, soaking through his uniform, leaving him chilled. His face was wet, though he couldn’t tell if it was from the rain or from his tears. 

A baby was in his arms, a little boy black of hair with green, sightless eyes. Behind him, a woman was wailing, screaming a name he didn’t recognize. The baby in his arms was stiff, lifeless; _still-born_ , they said. 

“But how can that be?” he asked, numb. It does not rain in the Underworld, but his face was wet regardless. “He is a god.”

Thanatos looked at him, his pale gray eyes laced with worry. “My lord...it would seem that the Fates do not abide the birth of a god in this place, to those who were once dwellers of the surface.”

He wasn’t listening. The baby in his arms was his. Small, gorgeous. He just needed to breathe. _Just breathe_. “Breathe for me, little one,” he whispered, begging, but the child did not move. 

It had taken so long for his wife to become pregnant, so long indeed that he thought he might be sterile. He had to have been the cause: she was a goddess of life and fertility, after all. A consequence of Fate; a result of his station, his rule over Death. 

On a whim, they made love in the glade where he first saw her, in Enna, under the cover of night, and they had finally— _finally_ —conceived. They may have ruled over the dead, but they themselves were not dead; they were gods, and they were fertile. And yet, the pain of being unable to conceive for an age was nothing compared to _this:_ Fate’s twisting of the knife once more. Punishment, but for what, he did not know.

His wife wouldn’t look at him; she shrank from his touch, like he had poisoned her, and once again he felt Fate’s knife twisting in his belly. His wife sequestered herself from him, from everyone, endured her pain alone and refused his comfort while his heart withered. He was a god, lord of the realm, ruler of a third of the cosmos, and yet he felt utterly helpless. _What do I do with this pain?_

At night, she wailed and the realm shook. He walked up the stairs towards the sliver of yellow light. He carried PFC Hansen on his back as shrapnel tore through his hip and thigh. 

_What do I do with this pain?_

A man begged for his life in front of him, on his knees. “Please, Logan, please, I know I messed up, I’ll have the money, _plus interest_ , please, just tell the Old Man—”

“Too late for that now.”

“Please, Logan, my family—”

“Should've thought of that before. It’s what it is,” Logan said, shooting the man point-blank in the head. The hot blood sprayed his face. His hands shook, holstering his pistol. His hands shook, trying to touch his wife’s shoulder as she screamed their son’s name. 

_What do I do with this pain?_

The rain was heavy; the desert was hot; the basement was freezing.

  
  
The screaming became louder; his limbs became stiff. In front of his eyes, the world turned white, blinding. 

“Mr. Black, you’re okay—Jackie, hit him again with it.”

He blinked, feeling clammy and sick. “Where am I, _who are you people?_ ”

There were several large men around him, holding his arms and legs in place, and as he struggled, he felt something sharp dig into his forearm. 

“You’re at Kino Hospital.”

“Hospital?”

“Yes, Mr. Black. Your sister found you unresponsive on your bed. You suffered a massive heart attack.”

“ _Heart attack?_ ” 

The EKG monitor started beeping rapidly. “Mr. Black, I really need you to calm down, can you do that for me?” 

The arms around him were binding, frightening. The men’s faces looked like those he had killed for the Old Man, and they were smiling. Their time to collect vengeance. 

“Stop touchin’ me!” he cried. “Let me go!” 

“I need you to calm down before we can do that, sir. I know it’s uncomfortable, but we need to make sure you’re not going to hurt yourself.”

_Hospital, hospital. You’re at Kino Hospital. Calm down._

He went limp, forcing himself to relax, yet the hands around him did not let go until it was apparent that his heart rate had slowed down. When the last of the nurses left, and he was alone with the eerily youthful doctor, he immediately knew that something was wrong. 

The clock on the wall clicked loudly. Tick, tock, tick, tock. They stared at each other, until the young doctor grinned, inhumanly beautiful. 

“My, my, my, Lord Uncle Hades, how I’d wondered when I’d be able to see your dark, brooding face again. I was never certain of the date, or the manner, but I always knew. The terms of the pact seem to have run you roughshod.” 

_Not again_ , he thought. _No more. Please._

“Who are you?” he asked, completely and utterly exhausted. 

“Why, my dear, austere, grim uncle, I’m your favorite nephew, of course. Apollo,” the doctor said, bowing dramatically, “At your service.”


	8. Warrant

Fucking Logan Black had been a mistake. A _fun_ mistake, but a mistake nonetheless. She couldn’t stop thinking about him; the way his skin felt against hers, the masculine scent of his cologne, the way he looked at her as she took him inside herself. She was distracted; she wanted more...which was a problem with midterms coming up. She had work to do: papers to write, labs to finish, and club meetings to attend. It was just sex.

_It was just sex._

Still, she kept waiting for him to call. A couple instances, she thought he did—those moments when her phone showed no caller ID. But if that was him, he never left a message, and they never spoke. A week passed; she kept herself occupied with the things she needed to do, and only indulged her fantasies about Logan Black in her dreams. And she dreamed about him a lot. 

He was always sitting on a throne; always a little surprised when he saw her; always waking from a deep sleep. His hair was longer, too, reaching his shoulders, with some locks bound in silver and gold coils, but handsome as ever. She’d climb on his lap and he’d laugh or smile. Sometimes, if she looked at him from a certain angle, she’d see a crown of platinum olive leaves wreathed around his head. 

“Seems you’ve found me, out in the waking world, to keep coming back to me here.”

“Seems I have.”

  
  
It was strange to be thinking so much about a one-night stand. To be _dreaming_ about him, too—that was weird. And it was even weirder that she’d dream about him like _this_ , imagining him in the vestments of some ancient king. But the dreams were sweet, and he was gentle: sometimes he just held her close and didn’t speak to her; other times, he’d ask her about her day. And she’d play along, because the dreams were clear, and she felt good and happy when he was in them. 

Sometimes, when she sat on his lap, he’d actually startle awake, like a frightened cat, and then slowly, gradually, the realization would dawn on him that she was there, and he’d grab her softly and then hold her tight, like he was afraid she’d disappear. 

“Ah, my sweet flower, it is good to see you again,” he said, pressing his forehead against hers.

“That your pet name for me now?” She grinned at him, lightly touching her thumb on his chin. 

“Always.” 

“I wish you’d call me,” she said, running her fingers through his hair. She quite liked him with long hair. “I gave you my number. Instead I keep seeing you here, in my dreams. It’s not fair.” 

“I like seeing you here,” he said, pulling her close to him. “Though I do wish the circumstances were different.” 

“Different how?”

“Back to the ways things used to be,” he said, smiling sadly. “Before all the...well, before all I could do was sleep. My heart feels...heavier than it used to. I can’t imagine what I must be like; what you must think of me, out there.”

“I like ya,” she said, kissing his nose. “Probably shouldn’t, but I do.”

He laughed at that, kissed the top of her head. “I suppose some things never change.” 

And so the days rolled by; a second week had passed without a word from him. And, to be honest, it hurt. Despite her better judgement, and all the red flags that she recognized in him—and not to mention, the red flags that her friends recognized once they learned that she’d gone and had sex with him—she was still attracted to him, crushing hard like a schoolgirl. At night, she imagined that it was his strong hands touching her as she pleasured herself, until finally the weekend arrived and she convinced her roommates to go out with her to _Pandemonium_ for a bit of fun, one last time. 

Clearly, he just wanted to be a one-night stand for her, which...fine, okay. She had no expectations about him, so she could deal with that. But she needed to break the spell; she _needed_ to end the weird, fucked up hold he hand on her mind, because obviously they weren’t going to be any type of _thing_ —friends with benefits, or an occasional booty call, or god forbid, _a couple_ —and she needed to focus on school, anyhow. He’d distracted her long enough, and she was going to end things on _her_ terms. 

“Stella, I know he’s hot and you’re all dickmitized but, like, are you sure this is a good idea?” Natalie was worried for her, like always. And, to be fair, this wasn’t the first time Stella had made questionable choices regarding men. 

“Probably not,” Stella admitted, fixing her earrings in the mirror. The bouncer had recognized Stella immediately, and had let her and her roommates into the club, free of charge. Marie was ecstatic and ran off to the bar, while she and Natalie headed to the restroom to make the final touches on their fits. 

“He’s left you alone...don’t you think you should leave him alone? I mean, I get that y’all had sex and had a good time, but, I dunno, Stell. I feel like you should drop it. Find another guy here tonight, maybe. Or a gal.”

“I’m not trying to get together with him or anything, Nat. I just want it to end on my terms.”

“Stell—”

“I’ll be in the VIP lounge. You can come with me, if you want.”

“And see you climb on his lap again? Ew, no thanks. Just text me when you’re done, so I can drag you back to horny jail where you belong.”

She laughed, exiting the restroom and heading up the stairs to the third floor, where the VIP lounge was. She quickly scanned the room but didn’t see him. _Where could he be?_ Maybe he saw her and was avoiding her? If so, ouch. She did see one face she recognized: Eddie, the bartender. He shook his head when he saw her. 

“He ain’t here,” he said, wiping down the marble top of the bar. 

“Where is he?”

“Dealin’ with shit. The man has other businesses to run ‘sides this one. Haven’t seen him since he left with his arms curled around you ‘coupla weeks ago.” 

“Oh…” She didn’t want to sound disappointed, but she couldn’t keep it from entering her voice. 

“‘Tween you and me, prolly a good thing he ain’t around. Could tell he really likes ya. Not normal for him to get handsy with a girl, ‘specially in public.”

She felt her cheeks heat up. “Uh, thanks, I guess.”

“Don’t take it as a compliment. Man told you he’s dangerous, and he is. If I were you, I’d take those hot little friends of yours, skedaddle on out of here, and never look back.”

If there was one thing Stella Porter hated in this world, it was a man telling her what to do. She crossed her arms, narrowed her eyes. “I’m not afraid of him.”

Eddie huffed out, chuckling as he started cleaning a glass. “I know. But you should be.”

“Why?”

“Not my place to say. But being the daughter of the DA is only gonna give you so much protection ‘round here, and ‘round him.”

“Are you threatening me?” She couldn’t believe what was coming out of this man’s mouth. 

“Hell no!” he said, putting the glass down. “Know better than to threaten Cassandra Porter’s daughter. Just tryna warn ya, is all. Set your expectations proper-like if you’re tryna be his girl.” He filled up a shaker, poured a daiquiri-looking drink into a glass. “Here, Sex on the Beach, on the house. For your trouble.”

“Pfft. Okay, thanks. I’m not here to start anything with him, or be his 'girl' or whatever. I’m here to end things. Officially.” 

Eddie shook his head again, pouring out a drink for another customer who sat next to her. “You’re a goddamn little spitfire, I’ll tell you what. Can see why he likes you. Man prolly hasn’t felt challenged in a while.” 

She rolled her eyes, took a sip of her cocktail. It was strong, but not enough to make the drink unpleasant. By contrast, the patron next to her coughed, choking on the hard liquor that he ordered. 

“You alright there?” she asked him. He looked underage. Really, really underage. Like a high schooler underage. She knew _Pandemonium_ had a reputation for being lax about checking IDs, but this could get them into serious trouble. Still, she wasn’t about to narc on the kid; even if Logan wasn’t there, she liked the club, and she’d hate for it to get shut down because a kid managed to sneak in. 

He looked at her and startled, like he’d seen a ghost. And it was weird, too, because he seemed oddly familiar. “Oh,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I am, yes. Thank you for asking, Miss….?”

“Porter,” she said. 

“Porter,” he repeated, smiling. “I’m...Hunter,” he said, and his words carried the slight lilt of an accent that she couldn’t place. _Pretty green eyes and dark hair_ , she thought. His goofy grin reminded her of her little brother, and she felt a sudden sense protectiveness over him. 

“Your parents know you’re here?” Damn, now she was the one acting all responsible. What a role reversal. She shook her head; if the kid got in trouble, it wasn’t any of her business.

“Likely not,” he said, and his smile grew wider. “Do yours?”

“No, but I don’t need their permission to go out to a club at night.”

“Neither do I, Miss Porter.” She scanned his clothes: they certainly looked expensive. He wore a gold or silver ring on each of his fingers, which wasn’t something she’d thought she’d ever see a rich high school kid do. It was kind of gaudy. _Son of a mob boss, maybe?_ She swallowed. Suddenly Eddie’s warnings about Logan seemed less irritating and patronizing than before. “But incidentally, I am here to meet my parents. One of them now, anyway.” He laughed, like he had told a joke, but she couldn’t understand what was supposed to be funny. He kept smiling at her, but that smile turned into a grimace as he coughed again, and this time it sounded like he was choking on phlegm instead of just bad liquor. 

“Ex— _cough_ —cuse me, Miss— _cough_ —Porter,” he said, heading to the bathroom. 

“Damn kid,” Eddie said, shaking his head again. “Serves him right for ordering the Death Shot. Fuckin’ babyface.”

“I...I think maybe you should send someone in there after him. He didn’t look good.” 

“He’s been showing up like that around here for days. Orders the same drink, makes some idle chit-chat, and then runs off to the bathroom or God knows where like he’s about to puke his guts out. Point is, I’m sure he’s fine. Been doin’ that...well damn, for a ‘coupla weeks now, now that I think about it. Huh. You know him?”

“What? No. Never seen him before in my life.”

“Seemed like he knew you or something, goin’ all goo-goo eyed at the sight of you, is all. Though,” his eyes roved up and down her body in a way that could only be construed as licentious, and she wanted to throw her drink at him, “‘suppose most men go goo-goo eyed over you. Guess I can’t blame him or the boss for that.”

She ignored his comment, sitting at the bar while she finished her drink. As she moved to step away, she heard a familiar voice—and not the rich, deep bass she wanted to hear. 

“Stella.”

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from groaning. 

“Henry,” she answered. Eddie pretended to ignore their conversation, but she knew that he was keeping a close eye on the both of them. 

“Do you have any idea what kind of danger you’re in, _just by being here_?” Henry asked, incredulous. 

“I’m sure you’re going to lecture me about it,” she answered, unimpressed. She wasn’t an idiot. She gathered that _Pandemonium_ wasn’t exactly the safest place in the world, and that Logan Black wasn’t a good man—she wished the people around her would stop telling her things she already knew, and let her make her own damn choices, like an adult. 

“This isn’t a fucking game, Stell. Christ.”

“It’s the weekend and I’m in my senior year of college, Henry. It’s just a nightclub. Relax.”

“It’s not just a club, and you know it. You can’t even begin to fathom the kind of nuclear meltdown your mom had when she saw you talking to that fucking rat outside the station.”

Oh, she could fathom it, all right. Hadn’t heard the end of her mom’s outraged phone calls, nor seen the end of her pissed off text messages. _Why were you talking to him? Do you know who he is? Do you know what he’s done, what he’s responsible for? I can’t believe you would do this to me. He’s dangerous, Stella. He’s dangerous._ _  
__  
_

_He’s dangerous_. 

No one in her life trusted her. She _knew_ he was dangerous; she’d sensed that from him, the very moment they locked eyes across the club. She _liked_ that about him: it _excited_ her. The more people told her to stay away from him, the closer she wanted to get. She hated being told what to do. 

“Henry, she’s my mother. Of course I can fathom it.” From the corner of her eye, she could see Eddie was struggling to keep from laughing. Must’ve thought Henry was a punk, too. 

“And yet you’re here, Stell, probably giving her a heart attack as we speak.”

“I’m enjoying a girls’ night out, like I said.”

“Oh yeah? I don’t see your friends around.”

“They’re around. And what are you, anyhow, my keeper? Mom send you out here to spy on me? If this place is so dangerous, why are you even here, you boy scout? Get over yourself, Henry, please.”

“Not here for pleasure, Stell. Here for business. To speak to your new apparent beau.”

“He’s _not_ my—”

He grabbed her elbow then, getting into her personal space quickly and alarmingly, and she had half a mind to knee him hard in the balls. She kept her temper in check. He was speaking into her ear, and she was sure that Eddie was already calling the bouncers over. 

“Stella, I don’t know who you think he is, but he’s not just some ‘bad boy’ fantasy with a motorcycle that’ll irritate your mom. He was an enforcer, okay? An _assassin_. And now he’s at the top of the food chain. You understand? He’s got blood on his hands; _lots_ of it. And I can’t abide a monster like that touching you. I won’t. ”

“But you’re okay to touch me, right, Henry?” She pushed his chest away from her, hard. His eyes went wide; hurt. Well, good. She hurt his feelings—oh well. Not like he gave a damn about hers. _‘I won’t,_ ’ she thought, enraged. Like he had any business trying to control her behavior. He wasn’t her father; he wasn’t even a friend anymore, not really. _Fuck you, Henry_. 

“Miss Porter...Detective Olsen...” There it was: the rich, deep bass that made her weak in the knees. They both turned to look at him, and my oh my, wasn’t he a sight. No suit jacket or tie this time: just a well-tailored charcoal dress-shirt and slacks. A crooked smile on his face as he regarded them both. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Here to investigate the property, Mr. Black. Easier if I do it now.”

Logan chuckled, walked in-between her and Henry and sat at the bar. Her heart skipped a beat as his large hand wrapped around her fingers; warm, calloused. She wanted to lean into him.

“Easier to investigate the building during business hours? Afraid not, detective. Come back with a warrant during the day, and then we’ll talk.”

The hand that wasn't entwined with hers trailed to her waist, gently coaxing her to sit on his knee, which she did. Dammit all—he was right tangled up all around her now, and she wasn’t quite sure how she felt about being ensnared, but she did enjoy seeing the steam pour out of Henry’s ears.

“You’re going to regret this, Black,” Henry said, positively seething. 

“That’ll be the day,” Logan said, his hand lazily rubbing circles on the top of her exposed thigh. She scooted herself back a little closer to his groin in retaliation, and his hand stopped. She turned her head to him, and he was staring at her, the pools of his eyes so dark with desire that her cunt throbbed in anticipation. “Run along now, little Messenger,” he said. His voice was thick with lust, and she could already feel herself getting wet. 

“Fine. Come on, Stella, quit messing around. Let’s go—”

“No, Henry.”

“...No?”

She couldn’t believe it; she was caught in another man’s embrace and he _still_ expected her to follow him like a little duckling. The fool. The absolute moron. 

_Idiot_. She stuck her middle finger up towards Henry Olsen as she gave Logan Black a deep kiss. A nasty kiss, really; nothing chaste about the way she stuck her tongue into his mouth, or how his other hand cupped her ass. It was a scene of PDA that she normally would find obnoxious in other circumstances...but it was hot, _and_ it pissed off Henry, who made a sound of disgust at their display. He never learned; but he would learn now, the painful way. 

When she came up for air, she felt Logan hard against her leg. He was making her feel heady already, when that wasn’t what she was here for. “Thank you for the kiss, darlin’,” he said, all soft, the small twang back in his words. _God,_ she was so attracted to him. What was wrong with her? She extricated herself from his lap, sat in the stool next to him. Space. She needed space.  
  


“You never called me,” she said, trying to sound detached but unsure if she pulled it off. His lack of communication hurt her; she knew it shouldn’t have—all they did was have sex, and if he _had_ called her, she probably wouldn’t have liked that either. But still: he _hadn’t_ called her, and that stung. 

“You left without sayin’ goodbye,” he replied, popping a piece of gum into his mouth. “Didn’t think you’d...appreciate a call from me. And I was busy, too.” Eddie offered to make him a drink, but all he wanted was water. He sipped on it silently, darting his eyes back to her occasionally. 

She guffawed, because he was right: she might not have actually appreciated getting a call from him. “Maybe not,” she agreed. “Still kind of wish you called.”

“I’m—I’m sorry, darlin’,” he said, giving her another soft look that made her heart flutter. “Truth be told, I thought I’d never see you again. Didn’t mean to hurt you.” He lightly touched his foot against hers. “Was never my intention to hurt you.”

“I...I accept your apology. And I just want to say, that I came here to end—to end _whatever_ it is that’s going on between us, but now...But now I...”

“But now, what, Stella?”

She laughed at herself, feeling strangely nervous around him. He never made her feel nervous before; usually she was the one in control of their interactions, and that’s how she preferred it. Things had changed though: she had an odd affection blooming for him, one that went beyond just the physical attraction that was, already, largely overwhelming. She wasn’t sure what to do about that, especially considering that he was _not_ , in _any way_ , good for her. 

“I think I actually like you,” she said, looking at him. Maybe if she glared, she’d be able to control her feelings towards him. 

“I _know_ I actually like you,” he said, smiling and reaching for her hand; she pulled away from his grasp. 

“No, Logan, that’s a problem.”

He blinked at her a couple times, rolled his strong shoulders. “Why?”

“Because of what you do,” she said, cutting right to the quick. “What you’ve done. Who you are.”

“Who I _am_ ?”

  
  
“Yeah.”

He glanced ed down, having the good grace to look embarrassed. The air was thick between them now. From the corner of her eye, she could see Eddie nervously fluttering around, trying to appear busy. 

“I don’t even know who I am,” he said, more to himself than to her. He flexed his fingers, opening and closing his fist like his knuckles were sore. He wasn’t angry; more sad, it seemed. Despondent. “Do you want to talk about this somewhere a little more private?” he asked, finally looking back up at her. Awkward, boyish, even; afraid of what she might say to him. Fragile. 

Familiar, too. So familiar. The face of her lover. She wanted to kiss him, she realized. Hold him, smooth away the worries on his heavy brow. She shook her head. _No, you idiot._ This is what she came here to do: to end things, officially. 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” she said, knowing she should flee now; knowing that she was a rabbit and he was a wolf, and if she stayed any longer, he’d sink his teeth into her—and she’d never be able to escape. But, God, the pull to stay was so strong: the way he was looking at her, so open and soft, he was just...just so damn familiar. Like she’d known him for years; like she’d loved him for _years_. “But...I’ll hear your piece in private, if that’s what you want.” 

“Thank you,” he said, and his voice was rough, like he’d been holding his breath in to hear her response. “Thank you, Stell.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she said, taking his hand as he offered it to her while she stood. “And only my friends call me ‘Stell.’”

“Ain’t we friends?” he asked, winking at her.

“I’m not sure what we are just yet.”


	9. Hitman

The target had a two-inch diameter hole punched through the center of its head. Henry readjusted his feet, shot the target again: one, two, right on top of each other, in the middle of its chest. 

“Son of a bitch,” Henry whispered, imagining Logan Black’s smug face as he aimed his pistol. That monster, touching her, like she was his _property_. Breathing the same air as him; breathing the same air as _her_. Tangled all around her like a snake. He couldn’t live with it; he couldn’t. “Fucker,” he cursed, shooting the target again, dead on. 

Black poisoned her well enough, the snake. Stella Porter, that beautiful girl, kissed Black without a care in the world; kissed him like she had never dared to kiss Henry, back when she was as sweet on him as he was sweet on her. _I’ll put him down like a dog_ , Henry thought, reloading his magazine. _Won’t even be able to have an open casket funeral_.

  
It’d be easy. Everyone on the force knew that the man was head of the largest syndicate in the city; likewise, everyone knew that the man had at least fifteen hits to his name, maybe more. Nobody would miss him. Nobody in the underworld; nobody on the force; and certainly not his own fucked up family. Logan Black would be gone, and the world would be brighter for it. And Cassandra Porter? Well, Cassie would look the other way, he was sure. 

He saw the seething hatred on her face when she spied the two of them talking outside the station. The five stages of grief that she went through, as she realized her daughter was looking awfully chummy and flirtatious with the devil himself. He felt those same feelings; felt them keenly as his love for Stella Porter came rushing back to him all at once, when he saw her at that bar, looking as beautiful, even as she stuck her tongue down Black’s throat. Black had touched her, defiled her, and Henry was going to make him pay with bullets and blood.

  
  
Now, granted, Henry had never killed a man before...but it wasn’t like Logan Black could really be considered a man. ‘Sides, every gangster in the world meets a violent end. Live by the sword, die by the sword; live by the gun—die by the gun. It’d be easy: one in the head, two in the chest, pop, pop, pop. Wouldn’t expect anything in return from Stell, either; just the knowledge that he’d kept her safe would be enough. 

Black would pay. He’d pay for everything, because the fucker was ratcheting up the city’s violence, plain as day. JJ Moreno, the little girl, and now three others, dead—and mutilated, to boot. 

Five murders in two weeks, all gang-related. All, at some point, leading back to Logan Black. No one but Henry could see it. _You’re too close to the case_ , Amy told him. _It’s too personal for you and you’ve got tunnel vision_. Gerry would say the same shit, tell him that Black wasn’t the only player in this game, and that anyway he’d been hospitalized for a week, so the timeline of the murders didn’t add up—but Henry knew otherwise. He didn’t have proof yet, but he knew. 

‘Sides, he didn’t _need_ proof to put the son of a bitch down. He had no delusions about Logan Black facing justice: the man had money, and laundered it well. Even if Henry managed to arrest him—find the proof that he _knew_ existed—the trial would be messy, and he’d probably get off scot-free. No, no: Henry had to kill him. That was the only answer. Had to kill him before he hurt Stell.

“I’m coming for you, you motherfucker,” Henry whispered, shooting the target in the head again. "Just you wait."

“You’re quite the marksman,” said a voice. It was muffled; Henry removed his ear protection. 

“Ma’am,” he said, addressing Cassandra Porter. “Whaddya need?”

“A favor,” she said, crossing her arms. Now, Cassandra Porter was all business. A career woman, through and through, with no room for relationships. She clawed her way up to being the District Attorney through grit and determination, raising Stell, and then later Aaron, all on her own. Made her way there despite the virulent racism that ranged from subtle to not-so-subtle, and did it with her head held high, too. She was a fucking warrior; and truth be told, he admired her, even as he resented her treatment of him at times. She was beautiful, too, but stern: hard lines framed her mouth, and she rarely cracked a smile unless she was talking about Stell. 

She was a hard woman, all things considered. The day after he’d been promoted to detective, she invited him to her office, told him to shut up and shut the blinds, and rode him within an inch of his life. Afterwards, she said, “This never happened,” and he nodded, stiffly. She fucked him, and it wasn’t like being with Stella, who was soft and shy; no, Cassandra tested his mettle, and found him sufficient enough to keep around—but it wasn’t out of affection. He’d be her loyal soldier. That was the deal. 

“What’s the favor?” She was glaring at him, and her eyes were hard, merciless. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from looking away. 

“First I need to know that I have your allegiance. And I’m serious. This is some go-to-your-grave shit, Henry.” 

“Name what you want, ma’am, and I’ll ensure it gets done.” Excitement was brewing in him. He could feel the enormity of what she was about to ask; could sense the pleasure of it, the wrongness of it. He was ready. 

She narrowed her eyes, looked at the glock he held. “You know that Logan Black has put his filthy paws on my daughter.” Her voice was calm, but Henry could see tension in the way she said the words and in the way her pupils dilated, taking up the whole of her green irises. 

“I do,” he said.

“I want you to spy on him. And when the timing is right, I want you to—I want you to—” She clenched her fist, looked away from him.

“Cassie,” he said, reaching for her hand. Surprisingly, she allowed his touch. “Tell me. Tell me and I’ll do it.” 

“Take care of him,” she said, through gritted teeth. His heart leapt: yes. _Yes_. This he could do; this is what he’d been put on this planet to do. “Lop the head off this fucking hydra; I’m tired of seeing his face. He’s destroyed so many lives, but he had the audacity to make things personal. To touch my daughter.”

“He did,” Henry agreed.

He saw fire in her eyes. “I want you to _kill_ that motherfucker.”

Yes. _YES_. “I’ll do it, Cassie,” he promised, breathless. “You can count on me. I lo—I mean, I really care for Stell. I’m not gonna let him hurt her.”

“I know, Henry,” she said, cupping his face. “I know. Thank you. Be careful.”

This was it: she was trusting him, finally. The good, loyal soldier sent on his first real mission. He racked his pistol, chambering a bullet. “I’m always careful.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the plot THICKENS. 
> 
> I apologize for inconsistent updates. Sometimes I'm not always in the mood or have the energy to write. It's a hobby for me, but one that I need energy to do. So some weeks you'll see several updates...and then sometimes I'll disappear for a few months. Again, I apologize for the inconsistency. 
> 
> Anyway, hope you all have been enjoying the ride thus far. Thank you for all the kudos, and especially the comments—those are very motivating.


	10. Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of plot in this chapter. But also SMUT. SMUT WITH PLOT, PLOT WITH SMUT. :D Towards the end tho. lol

He led her to his office, which was secluded and sound-proofed against the thudding techno of _Pandemonium_ ’s lower floors. From the corner of his eye, he saw Thanatos, smirking at him. Inside, he sat on the couch and let slip a groan, feeling the beginnings of a migraine coming on. He shut his eyes. It was hard for him to look at her: his vision doubled, tripled, even, seeing who she had been across time. 

“You okay?” she asked him. Her hand touched his brow and he sighed. He laid his head in her lap, earning a surprised ‘oh’ from her. 

“Just a headache,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “It’ll go away.” 

“Maybe I should leave,” she whispered, running her hands through his hair. It triggered a memory in him, ancient, where they sat together in her garden. She was braiding his hair; binding it in coils of gold and silver, in the fashion of the time. He sighed, feeling overwhelmed by the image, the sensation of it, like he was losing himself to a past that wasn’t his. 

“No, please,” he said, touching her chin. “Stay with me. I want to talk to you.”

Logan didn’t really believe he was Hades, Lord of the Dead. Instead, he was actively trying to function with a form of schizophrenia that had hit him rather hard and rather suddenly. Just another way he resembled his pops, the fucker. He tried clozapine for about two days before the medication made him feel like shit and decided he would just tough out his mental illness, like he had toughed out everything else in his life. _Look how well that’s gone for you_ , he chided himself.

He opened his eyes, looked up at her, and his breath hitched. Despite everything, she was smiling down at him, touching him, unafraid. Treating him like a person...like he wasn't a monster. He clenched his jaw to keep from shuddering as she cupped his cheek; it was a touch so unlike what he was used to. 

“It’s so funny,” she said, tracing the tips of her slender fingers along his lips. “I look at you, and I feel like I know you.”

“I feel the same.” He held her hand, kissed the tops of her knuckles. Man, if his boys could see him now, how soft he was being with this girl. He’d never hear the end of it. Not like he could help himself, though...and not like he wanted to, either. 

“You don’t seem like such a bad man, Mr. Black.”

_Sweetheart_ , he thought, _you have no idea_. He shivered. “I am,” he said, jerking away from her suddenly, like her words had scalded him. 'Bad' wasn't powerful enough of a descriptor—'evil' was probably more appropriate. There’d be no changing that; there’d be no denying that. He liked her, but he knew he wasn’t good for her. He put his head in his hands, and trembled when he felt her touch his back. 

“My mom says you’ve killed people.”

God, she could be wearing a wire. Cassandra Porter wasn’t beyond using underhanded tactics to get what she wanted; he’d seen a few, less careful rivals get taken down through similar means. But to use her own daughter? Fuck, man. Stella's arms wound about his waist, drawing him from his thoughts, and he felt her head lean against his shoulder. “Are you...are you a killer, Logan?” she asked him, the hesitation and fear in her voice breaking any resolve he had.

“Y-yes,” he said, in a choked admission that was almost a sob. He could see blood soaking his hands; could smell iron on his skin. He wanted to scream. 

A killer; a low-life; a scoundrel; a gangster; a no-good, rotten, very bad man—the fucking Antichrist, sending men to their graves for being late on a _payment._ That’s what he was. That's who he was.

“I’ve...I’ve done some really, really bad things, Stella,” he said, his voice wavering. He wasn’t going to cry in front of her. “Your momma and Henry—they’re right about me. You should stay away. I’m sorry...I’m sorry for steppin’ into your life at all. Wasn’t right of me.”

She didn’t move away from him, even as he heard her breathing accelerate at his admission. Fear, he supposed. She was right to be afraid, and he pushed her away like he pushed away everyone else; everyone he ever cared about. His brothers; his sister. _Sofie_ , he thought, shutting his eyes. _You were right_.

Just a few days ago, his sister had slapped him, open palmed, followed by a backhand, after she found out he had woken up from his coma; good ol’ sisterly love. She was the only one who came to visit him there...although, she may have been the only one who knew, besides his boys. Hallucinations of Death or his supposed nephew didn’t count.

“You fucking _asshole_ ,” Sofie said, slapping him a third time. He grabbed her wrist to stop her, gentle as he could. She was making his face hurt.

“What the hell, Sofie?”

“I fucking hate you,” she murmured, real low, so he could barely hear her. Then she threw her arms around his neck, started sobbing into his shoulder, and he was at a loss. “I thought you _died_ ,” she cried, the sobs wracking through her in powerful waves.

He felt bad. No, worse: he felt _guilty_. He didn’t like to feel guilt; it was an emotion he pushed down below everything else, because if he let it sit too long, it paralyzed him like nothing else. Couldn’t afford to feel guilt as an enforcer—and even less so as a boss. “I’m okay, Sofie,” he said, rubbing her back in soothing circles, holding her like he did when they were children. He used to be her protector, in those days. Now, he only seemed to cause her pain. He felt nauseous. “See? I’m okay. Don’t cry.”

She sat back from him, rubbing her eyes. She was still furious. “You’re not okay,” she said, pointing at all the wires the hospital had him hooked up to. “You have no idea what I went through, seeing you like that. The doctors weren’t sure if you’d ever wake up. You _asshole_.” She slapped him again, with a resounding _smack_ , and this time he let her. 

“Sofie…” he said, trying to reach for her. She pulled away from him. “Sofie, I’m sorry.” 

“ _God_. We are so _beyond_ , ‘sorry,’ Logan.” She laughed, exasperated. “Every day I wake up, thinking I’m going to get a call from some cop saying that you’ve been found dead in a ditch somewhere, or at the docks, cut up into little pieces. I lived with that fear every day you were deployed, and then you got out, and I thanked whatever higher power exists because you made it back, hurt but alive, when others didn’t. But the fear didn’t end when you got back. I still fucking live with that crippling fear now, because of your choices.”

“Sofie, I—”

“Shut up, Logan. Just shut the hell up, for once. _Fuck_.” She ran her fingers through her hair, ruffling her short pixie cut. She took a deep breath, started again. “I know you think no one gives a damn about you. Peter is still angry with you, and Will is…Well, Will is Will. But I do give a damn about you, Logan. And maybe I shouldn’t, because Lord knows, you’ve done some unforgivable things. But I _love_ you, and I can’t keep sitting by, watching you slowly kill yourself. You—you can’t keep putting me through this.” She sniffed, wiping her soulful brown eyes. “And the worst part about it all, about everything that you’ve put me through? It’s that I’m _afraid_ of you now, Logan. You fucking _scare_ me.”

Hearing her say that hurt something fierce. His stomach churned; he felt hot and dizzy. “You’re afraid of me?”

She laughed again, pitch black and completely devoid of humor. “Is that so hard to believe? You’ve got no self-awareness at all. Fuck, you’re...you’re so much like Dad: your rage, your violence. You’re even starting to look like him.”

“Don’t say that to me,” he growled, cold as ice. He had done a lot of bad things...but he wasn’t his father. Could never hold a candle to that monster. No. _Please, no_. “Don’t _ever_ say that to me.”

“Logan, Jesus, just _listen_ to yourself. Do you hear how you sound? I love you, I love you _so much_ , but I can’t keep doing this,” she said, kissing his cheek. “I’m...I’m moving out of this damn city. Retiring from all the misery and pain.”

He gaped at her. She couldn’t be serious. He _needed_ her. “What are you saying, Sofie?”

“I’m saying goodbye, brother. I’m saying if you ever want to see me again, you’ll stop going down this path, because I can’t follow you anymore.”

“You’re abandoning me,” he stated. 

“No,” she said, shaking her head. She gathered up her purse, pulled on her sweater. “I’m giving you an ultimatum.”

“Just go,” he said, through gritted teeth. He looked away from her, even as she kissed his temple. “Get out.”

The interaction left him feeling cold and empty. And what was worse, was that she’d hadn’t been lying about leaving, either: her office was abandoned; her house put on short sale; her number disconnected. His sister had completely cut herself out of his life, and the sting wasn’t going to go away anytime soon.

  
  
He thought about using other, less savory means to find her. He could do it; he had the connections. But he suspected that there was a certain amount of trust she was putting in him: a little bit of faith that, despite everything, he would respect her boundaries, even if her self-imposed disappearance had stuck a hot knife into his belly. So he dropped it—and let the realization dawn, dig in, and fester that, yes: he was now utterly alone in this world. Alone, except for his thoughts...and his hallucinations. 

Turned out, chatting with Death wasn’t so bad. He was smart, for one; didn’t annoy Logan like the rest of his rock-biter crew did sometimes. ‘Course, he’d blather on and on about some war, about New Gods trying to pick off his kind, one by one, and how Logan really needed to wake the fuck up, and blah, blah, blah. Long as Logan didn’t take another trip down below to the Underworld, he found that he didn’t so much mind Than’s loquacious company. 

“What’s that drink on the table?” Stella asked suddenly, as if she were in a trance. Her soft voice pulled him from his dark thoughts.

“Drink?” He lifted his head from his hands, following her line of sight, content that she was still there; content that she still seemed to like touching him, despite his admission. He chose not to believe the very real possibility that it was simply fear that kept her rooted next to him: fear that he would hurt her, somehow. He once again felt bile rising in his throat. “What drink—oh.” When he finally saw the bottle, he felt his mouth go dry.

“It’s...a gift,” he said, sitting up straight. So it was real. It was sitting there, right on his coffee table, like it was his old bottle of Johnny Walker Blue. “From my nephew...Apollo.”

She scooted closer, picked the bottle up slowly. Her movements were odd, he noticed, like she was sleepwalking. “What kind of parents name their kid Apollo?” 

“The eccentric kind, I reckon. Stella, are you okay?” 

“Perfectly fine,” she said, smiling at him, her well-placed fear of him suddenly forgotten. “Why do you ask, Mr. Black?”

_Because you were having a normal reaction to me admitting I’m an honest-to-God murderer, Stell. And now you’re acting like nothing’s changed._

“You’re actin’ strange on me all of a sudden,” he said, placing the back of his hand to her forehead. She did feel warm. “I think you might have a fever, sweetheart. Here, gimme the bottle.” He reached out, touched the neck of the glass, and immediately felt his skin heat up. It was definitely the bottle Apollo had given him, no denying it now. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_. 

Thanatos was firmly a hallucination. Logan knew that without a shadow of a doubt. No one else saw the guy; no one else heard him. He popped in and out of Logan’s vision like a ghost. But Apollo? Well, Apollo was another story. Apollo really seemed to exist...which is to say, Logan saw other people interacting with him in the hospital, chit-chatting with him like he was supposed to be there, doing some real doctorin’. Ergo, it was impossible for him to be just a figment of Logan’s broken psyche. His name tag even read ‘Apollo Archer, M.D.,’ and the nurses addressed him as such. And, to be fair, most of Logan’s conversations with the man were usually about his treatment, y’know, normal conversations between a doc and their patient...that is, until the nurses would inevitably leave, and then the weird shit would start.

On Logan’s last day before being discharged from Kino, Apollo entered his room and shut the door, locking it. Alarm bells sounded off in Logan’s head, but he forced himself to stay calm, told himself that he wasn’t experiencing anything real at the moment; he was off in Wonderland again. 

“I want you to take this,” Apollo said, handing Logan a bottle of iridescent liquid. It glittered like gold, and radiated warmth. 

Logan licked his lips, mesmerized. “What is it?”

“Ambrosia, uncle.”

“Food of the gods…”

“Indeed, and it is a rare delicacy—now more than ever. Take it. It’ll help you regain your strength.”

“Right.” 

“It was difficult for me to procure, but you are family. Only a few sips a day, mind; too much, and it’ll destroy your mortal shell.”

Logan gulped, staring at the finely-crafted bottle in his hands. “Why are you here...why are you helping me?”

“I miss my family,” Apollo said, simply. “I know certain... _others_ prefer this arrangement, with so few of us to step on each other’s toes now, but I do not. Ah, I can see I’ve spoken too much already—I do apologize for causing you this new migraine, uncle.”

“I’m fine. It’s just a headache.” It was not just a headache: Logan had to fight to keep his eyes open under the harsh fluorescents of his hospital room. 

Apollo tutted, putting on a show of sadness, but Logan could tell that the young man was greatly amused. “I sincerely do not wish to overwhelm you. I recognize that...that this is a significant amount to take in and understand, and that your mind is desperate for answers. Unfortunately, I cannot explain everything at once to you. Your short excursion to the Other Side and its effects are proof enough that too much at once could very well be your undoing. So for now remember, only a few sips a day. And when the time comes...do be careful with my brother, would you?”

“Brother?”

Apollo smiled, brilliant as the sun. “But of course you didn’t recognize him, how silly of me. He’s like you: dormant. I’ll give you a hint—he’s a detective.”

Logan pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned. “You’ve _got_ to be shittin’ me.”

Naturally, Logan didn’t believe that the bottle was real; thought it would disappear, much like Than did when he got annoyed. Logan also didn’t believe that Detective Henry Fucking Olsen was the dormant Messenger of the Olympian gods, even if he had teased the kid about it earlier in the club. But the bottle was there right now, sitting on his coffee table, very real, and very much taunting him. _Fuck_. 

“Looks expensive,” Stella said, sounding husky. She was staring at the golden liquid, enraptured. His neck was burning, and he felt vaguely feverish. _Have a sip_ , he thought. _Should be good._ _Should be tasty_. _You’re a god, she’s a god. It’ll be fine._

That’s right: Stella was supposed to be Persephone, the wife he absconded with back before antiquity even began. His hand was on hers now, touching the bottle. He was sweating.

“Let’s crack it open,” he said, feeling strangely out of control. She nodded, eager. He poured a shot for her, and one for himself. 

“Down the hatch,” he said, his words sounding muffled and distant to his own ears. 

“Down the hatch,” she repeated, smiling. They clinked their glasses together and he knocked his shot back. Its effect was instant, launching him like a rocket ship to the tallest high he’d ever known. Around him, the world seemed sharper: the colors were more vibrant. And he felt good—he felt, really, _really_ good. Strong, like he could pick up a truck with one hand. The persistent ache in his leg was gone too. 

“Look at you,” he heard her say, dreamy. He looked back down at her, right into her eyes, because the sight of her didn’t cause his vision to blur anymore, and my, was she a lovely picture.

“Rather look at you,” he said. She giggled, and the sound made his heart thunder in his ears. “C’mere,” he said.

“No,” she teased, smiling. “You come here.” She grabbed his wrist, pulling him towards her until he was on top of her. His mind felt slow and sluggish, like the cogs in his head had been mucked up with molasses. 

He felt something press against his lips. She was kissing him, he realized. Softly, oh so softly. He kissed her back, moaning as her tongue found his. It was a deep kiss, one that sent heady desire straight to his groin.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, moving down to kiss her neck. She sighed, and all he wanted to hear was that sound. “God, Stella, you make me feel like a caveman.” He heard her breathy laugh, tried to stop the desperate mewl in his throat as her hands ran through his hair again. His skin was burning. He sat up from her quickly, removed his button-down just as fast. She followed his lead, pulling her tube top off, along with her skirt. She got on her knees to kiss him as he started working on his belt, and her quick, clever hands did the rest of the work, so all he had to do was kick off his shoes and socks. He picked her up, placed her on his tall desk.

Her hands were roving over his stomach, over his chest, like she couldn’t get enough of touching him. He ran his tongue over her nipples, relishing how she arched against him, relishing her soft whimpers of pleasure as he took each sensitive bud into his mouth. He moved his hand down to cup her and—

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he said, unable to keep the moan from entering his voice. Absolutely soaked, coating the whole of his hand. His index and middle fingers entered her easily. “Do you get this wet for everyone?” Something was happening to him. His head was swimming and he didn’t...he didn’t feel like himself. His skin still felt like it was burning.

She turned away from him, blushing. He crooked his fingers in her, making her gasp. “Answer me, my sweet flower,” he said, in a voice that wasn’t quite his. 

“No,” she gasped, rocking her hips against his hand, absolutely shameless. He drank in the sight of her, committing it to memory: the soft curves of her breasts; the way she moved; the way she fondled her nipples; the soft ‘o’ her luscious lips made as he slid his fingers in and out of her; the way she bit her bottom lip as he rubbed his thumb against her clitoris with increasing pressure. A vision. He’d keep her burned behind his eyes like this forever.

“Has anyone ever made you this wet before?” he asked. She didn’t answer, instead sending him a look of defiance that made his dick throb. “Don’t be coy, sweetheart. I already know the answer,” he said, languidly stroking himself for relief. He increased the pace of his fingers, the rhythmic pressure he put on her clit. “But I want to hear _you_ say it.” He crooked his fingers inside her again, in that spot he found so quickly during their last coupling, and smiled with pure male pride as he saw her curse silently. “Tell me.” 

She didn't answer. He did it again.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she cried, arching her back off the desk. He felt her walls squeeze around his fingers, and he backed off, but only just. He didn’t want her finishing, not yet. 

“That ain’t a proper answer, darlin’,” he said, feeling less like his head was swimming now...but still not entirely in control of himself. “I wanna hear you say it.”

“You’re—the—only—one—who’s—ever—made—me—this—wet,” she sputtered, crying out the words all at once. He stilled his hand in her in response, grinning wide and wolf-like. She was glaring at him now, not happy with how he brought her close to the brink and then denied her.

“Good girl,” he said, teasing, starting the rhythm up again. She couldn’t maintain her glare; he felt her pussy clamp around him, saw the involuntary way she shut her eyes. “Do you want to come?”

“Yes,” she moaned. “Yes, _please._ ” 

He was hungry for her, ravenous for her, but he wanted to hear her say the words. His body was burning, his prick was aching; all he could think about was her, and how he wanted to bury himself inside of her, right to the root of him. “How badly?” 

“Please,” she begged, lustful and lost to the sensation of his hands. “I want you inside me,” she said, circling her hips in a way that made his mouth water. 

“I’m already inside you,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. He curled his fingers to accentuate his point, making her gasp. “Be more specific. What is it you really want?”

She opened her eyes, looked at him directly, daring him. “I want your cock inside me,” she said, purposefully squeezing herself around his fingers. “I’ve been thinking about you for days.” She sat up, started kissing his neck, the shell of his ear. “I’ve been thinking about how no one has ever fucked me as good as you.” She trailed her hand down to his hard prick, wrapping her fingers around the shaft, and he shut his eyes. She pulled his shaking hand out of her, sucked on his trembling fingers in a way that made him almost come then and there. 

With her other hand, she positioned him so that he pressed against the soaked folds of her entrance, and he hissed as she slowly ground herself up against him. “You’ve made me so fucking wet,” she breathed. "I always get so wet when I think of you."

“Stella,” he panted. “You feel so good—”

She kissed him, hot and full of desire and completely in control of him, and trailed her searing lips along his jaw, back to his ear. “Now,” she said, nibbling on his earlobe. His breath caught. “ _Fuck me_.”

He pressed inside of her in one smooth motion, causing them to both gasp in unison as he filled her. He could already feel the heat in his stomach uncoiling, his impending orgasm rushing through him with a power all its own.

“Don’t move,” he said, digging his fingers hard into her hips. His legs were shaking with the strain of keeping still, and it didn’t help that her lips had found that sensitive spot behind his ear. She was having a grand old time there, wasn’t she, teasing him with kisses. “I’ve been waiting to feel you inside me,” she whispered, low and sultry. He shuddered, right on the edge of losing control.

Slowly, he steadied his breathing, kissing her collarbone as he felt the growing heat in his belly simmer down just enough. “Are you ready now?” she teased, moving her hips in a circular motion that sent sparks flying behind his eyes. 

He didn’t say a word, only kissed her deeply as she pulled on his neck, crashing his mouth onto hers. Her nails scratched at his back as he moved, his hips pistoning in and out of her. He pressed as close to her as he could, instinct telling him that the more he pushed into her, the closer they could get to becoming one. His skin was completely aflame now; every part of him felt scalded by her touch, but still he stayed inside her, listening to her moans turn into desperate cries, feeling her pulse around him in orgiastic glee. 

He moaned into her shoulder, saying a litany of names that he deliriously hoped she couldn’t hear. “Persephone,” he called her. _Persephone, Persephone, Persephone._

  
  
Suddenly they weren’t in his office, but instead in a field: a glade underneath the night sky, and she continued to cry out, locking her legs around him, keeping him close. Darkness enveloped him, made him shiver, even as it gave him strength. He picked up his pace, punishing the both of them as he pulled all the way out of her and pressed himself back in, to the hilt, over and over again. _Reveal yourself_ , he thought, delirious, lost in the pleasure of her body. 

“Say my name,” he commanded, sounding strange and tinny to himself.

“Logan,” she panted. 

“No,” he said, whispering into her ear. “Say my name, Persephone. _Say it_.”

“ _Hades_ ,” she cried, gasping and clamping hard around him as he thumbed her clit. The name sent a shock of pleasure pulsating throughout his body. The flowers that cradled her beneath him grew more resplendent, combating the darkness that had begun to envelope them both. 

“Again,” he ordered, panting. He was so close, right there, and he could feel that she was close, too. “Hades,” she repeated, cupping his face, pulling him down for a tender kiss that made him whimper and sent him careening over the edge with her as she rocked her hips up with his, shuddering as her orgasm burned through her. When he opened his eyes again, they were back in his office, and she was naked on his desk, looking bewildered and unsure. 

“You...you okay?” he asked her, shivering, kissing the top of her head. She looked...afraid.

“No, I’m not okay,” she said, and her voice shook in a way he hadn’t heard from her before. She moved away from him, and immediately started putting her clothes back on. He felt strangely shy and vulnerable in front of her, and began dressing himself as well, only managing to get his boxer briefs on by the time she was fully clothed.

“Will you at least tell me what’s wrong?” he asked. This was new territory for him, and he wasn’t exactly sure how to navigate it. Whatever he felt when he was inside her, whatever that dark voice was, that heat on his skin—it did fuck all now for his confidence. “Did I do somethin’?”

“ _Everythin’s_ wrong. And yes, you did do _somethin’_ —a lot of _somethin’_ ,” she said, mocking the accent he let slip when he was around her. She started tying her hair back. 

“Stell, please—”

“First of all,” she said. She turned on him, furious, poking her finger into his chest until the backs of his knees hit his desk and he was forced to sit down on it. “I’m not ‘Stell’ to you.”

“Stella.”

“Second of all, I didn’t come here to have sex with you. I came here to end things. But you pulled some weird Mafia seduction on me, and we fucked—”

“ _Pulled some weird Mafia seduction on you?_ ” A part of him—a very dark part of him, one that he was ashamed of, but one that was no less powerful—started to become enraged at her. Who the hell did she think she was, poking him in the chest and bringing him to heel, like he was a _dog_ who needed to be disciplined? Nobody had the audacity or recklessness to treat him like that. Nobody. “You misunderstand who you’re talking to, sweetheart.” 

“I know full well who I’m talking to. What, am I making you _mad_ —are you gonna _hurt_ me?” 

“For the record, yeah, you are pissin’ me the fuck off,” he growled. Inside, he felt like his spirit was breaking apart.“‘Specially insinuatin’ that I’d put my hands on you.” _Yeah, push her away like you pushed away Sofie. Make her afraid of you, you fucking asshole_. 

“Boo-hoo, Logan. You _came in me_ ,” she continued, seething, furious. His eyes went wide. Oh. Yeah. He definitely did do that. He looked at a particularly interesting piece of lint on the ground. His cheeks felt hot. “And I’m mad at myself for letting you do that, when you straight up admitted to me that you’ve _killed_ people, Logan. What’s physical abuse to man who’s got a _body count_ , hmmm?”

“It’s not the same,” he said, gasping like a fish out of water. He didn’t have an answer for her, leastwise not one that she would accept. Couldn’t tell her that he watched his daddy beat his mom silly when he was a kid and it made him fucking sick to his stomach to even think he could do something like that. His sister’s words cut right through him: _you’re so much like Dad now_. “I’m not like him,” he said. “I’m _not_.”

“Not like who, Logan? And what’s with this ‘Hades’ stuff? That your gangster name or what?” 

Hearing the nickname now, from her mouth, and not in the throes of ecstasy, instantly gave him a piercing headache. “Something like that,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. The room started to spin. _Make it to the couch, just make it to the couch_. “I need to...go...lie down,” he groaned, pitching forward. 

A surprised, “oh shit,” was the last thing he heard before his vision turned black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg, y'all's feedback is so much fun. I'm not gonna show my hand just yet, but I love the speculating—fun to read what directions y'all will think this will go! I appreciate the feedback so much. <3


	11. Preludes

“You all right, Stella?”

She was staring at the beaker, lost in thought. 

“What’s up?” she asked, distracted. 

“Something happen? You don’t seem very focused today.” That was her lab partner, Yecenia Moreno, who was an exhausted, downtrodden Empire City University sophomore, two years her junior. In fact, Stella was the oldest student in her Organic Chemistry course, because she had managed to put off taking it until senior year for her botany degree requirements. Unlike most of her classmates, Stella quite liked O-Chem, but she hadn’t been able to focus on _anything_ , much less O-Chem, since her last encounter with Logan.

“Nothing happened,” she said, writing her observations into her composition book. 

_Liar_ , she told herself. It was frightening to see Logan lose consciousness. The way his limbs went slack, the way his eyes rolled to the back of his head, and how he leaned forward, like he had no bones in his body to hold him up—it all made Stella’s heart race. She’d never seen a human being crumple like that before. 

“I just haven’t been sleeping well.” How was it only Monday? It felt like an age had passed since Saturday night.

In her dream, she walked up to him, and the visage of his throne constantly shifted between an onyx throne gilded in platinum, and one that was made out of human bones. He opened his eyes, his easy smile quickly turning into a frown when he noticed her anger.

“Have I upset you?” he asked.

“Who are you?” 

“I am your husband,” he said. He looked at her, but did not move from his seat. 

“But _who_ are you?” she asked, fearing the answer. 

He canted his head to the side, flexed his ringed fingers. “You know the answer already, my sweet flower.”

“Don’t call me that,” she said, feeling the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. “I’m not going to ask again. Who are you?”

She could see his jaw muscle working; she knew that she had hurt him. She couldn’t bring herself to care. 

Finally, he stood, and she found herself stepping back as she realized he was at least twelve feet tall, maybe more. 

“I am lord of all the riches beneath the earth,” he said, and jewels and piles of gold began to appear all around her, “Shepherd of Shades, Ruler of the Other Side. Zeus of the Underground: the Master of Death and Lord of the Dead.” His voice was booming, as deep and as loud as breaking earth. Around her, ghostly courtiers appeared and disappeared from her vision. A two-pronged spear materialized in his hands. “I am _Hades_.” The ground rumbled beneath her feet. He pointed the spear at her, and every cell in her body told her to run, but she was rooted in place by fear. “And you are Persephone: Dread Queen of the Underworld, and my _wife_ ,” he said, with finality. 

“No,” she said, shaking her head.

He blinked, surprised. “No?”

She was dreaming. She refused to believe any of this. “You’re just a man. A rotten one too.”

“Just a man?” He laughed, genuine and warm, and sat back on his throne. He looked...sleepy. He shut his eyes. “Perhaps I am only just a man,” he said. 

“Yeah,” she said, feeling her courage returning. “Good ol’ southern boy turned Mafia hitman, turned freaking kingpin. What the hell did I ever see in you?”

“I am not certain,” he said, still smiling at her. “You have always been, what’s the saying, ‘out of my league’.” His eyes cracked open slightly and he winked at her. “Until next we meet...sweetheart.”

She ran up to him, tried jostling him awake, but it was no use. 

“Stella, _helllooooooo._ You realize you didn’t do any of the set-up for our lab, right?”

“Yeah, sorry,” Stella said, embarrassed. She couldn’t keep her mind off him; not when she was asleep, and certainly not when she was awake. 

“It feels like I’m talking to a wall.”

“I’m sorry, Yecenia,” Stella said. “It’s just—I…”

As he fell, she caught him, out of instinct, and kept him from cracking his head open on the edge of his coffee table. Lord, he was _heavy_ , probably weighing in at around two-hundred and forty pounds, if she had to guess. In that moment she was thankful for her childhood gymnastics training, because otherwise she would have likely dropped him, or collapsed under his dead weight. As it was, she struggled just lowering him to the ground. And it didn’t feel right to leave him there on the floor, unconscious, but she wasn’t sure if she could try to drag him to the couch, let alone lift his large frame _onto_ it. 

“Look, I can tell something went down with you. But if you don’t want to talk about it, okay,” said Yecenia, shaking her head. “You’re pretty out of it, though. I don’t really want to be lab partners with you anymore. Not trying to be offensive.”

“I’m sorry. I just. I had kind of a rough weekend,” Stella admitted, putting their supplies away. 

“Relationship drama?”

“Yeah,” Stella said, feeling her palms turn sweaty. 

“Well, good luck with whatever it is you’re dealing with, Stella. Thanks for showing up for lab, I guess. Even though I basically did everything. After my girlfriend broke up with me this morning.” Yecenia left in a huff, and Stella was alone in the classroom. She clutched her chest. _Logan_...

She checked his pulse, which was strong, and made sure he was still breathing normally. What would happen if she woke him up? Should she even try? Her pounding heart kept telling her to run, to leave him there and get out, while she still had the chance. 

Sitting on her haunches next to him, she examined his face and swallowed hard. His normally-slicked-back hair had fallen forward in front of his eyebrows, and she reached out to smooth it back. He looked so peaceful lying there, so boyish and handsome. “What am I going to do with you…” she whispered, her words trailing off.

  
  
Stella sat back, catching a glimpse of the golden liquid on his coffee table. _Shouldn’t have drank that stuff_ , she thought. Its effects were still coursing through her system: her skin felt hot and clammy. She hugged herself tightly, shuddering. She’d done her share of drugs: smoked pot occasionally, tried molly once or twice, mostly just to spite her mother. She stayed away from the really hard stuff, though, so whatever was in that drink, well, it was stronger than anything she’d ever tried before.

It made every sensation sharper: his skin on hers, his kisses on her neck—it was overwhelming. And for a brief, terrifying moment, as she felt him lose himself, she saw him as a king. She called him Hades as he surged inside of her, and believed that was his name. He cloaked himself in darkness, and she looked up at innumerable stars, and she believed, however briefly, that he was Hades. The certainty of that belief scared her. 

He looked at her, warm and loving, kissed her forehead, and she saw an ancient king. _Run_ , she thought. _Get the hell out of here and run_. She pushed herself away from him, ignoring the confusion and hurt in his eyes, gathering up her things as quickly as she could. She could feel him watching her as she dressed, and her ears burned. When she looked at him again, he was Logan, with all his imperfections and mistakes, and not the king of a realm long-forgotten. _He’s just a man,_ she told herself. _Just a man_. Again she trembled, pulling her gaze from the shimmering liquid. She wanted more of it; her tongue ached to taste it. _Just a little more_ , she thought. _It won’t hurt._

  
  
Logan groaned and she shook, startled. _Okay, you have to go, now. Like, now, now._ She stood on trembling, nervous legs.

Behind her, she could hear him slowly beginning to rouse to consciousness. “Stelllllla?” He sounded groggy, elongating her name as if he were still dreaming. She looked back, saw that he had turned over onto his stomach and was holding himself up on his forearms. His eyes were bloodshot, his expression confused. The image sent a shock through her: she saw him in armor, in a puddle of amber, and he was reaching out for her, begging for something she didn’t understand. 

“Goodbye, Logan,” she said, trying not to hyperventilate. 

“ _Wait_ —” She didn’t wait, even though she heard the fear and confusion in his voice, how it warbled in his throat. No: instead, Stella closed the door on him in a rush, and ran face-first into someone’s chest. “S-sorry,” she said, “I was just on my way out.”

“No worries.” The man chuckled lightly. “The Boss is still in there, I take it?” He sounded young; she snuck a quick glance at him.

“Yeah,” she said, a rush of nausea rolling through her. “Passed out on the floor drunk.” Least it was somewhat accurate. 

“ _Passed out?_ ” 

“Yeah. Like, full-on fainting spell.” Might not’ve been a smart thing to say, but her filter was nonexistent at this point. She needed to get out. “You work for him or something?”

“I’m his...consigliere,” he said, half-smiling, like he had told a joke.

“His whaaaa?” She wasn’t sure if she heard him correctly. Everything he said sounded vaguely muffled. 

“An assistant, of sorts. He calls me Than.”

“Than,” she repeated, leaning back against the wall. He looked to be about her age, lithe and wiry. Too light and skinny to be a bodyguard, in her estimation. “Thaasss a weird name,” she slurred, feeling increasingly inebriated. “Short forrr Nathanielll?”

“Not quite.” He smiled, and it was a nice smile. Calming, friendly. 

“You seem suh sweet,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “Weird you’re working here, and for _him_. Better get in there and check on him, yeah.” It was becoming increasingly difficult to stand. 

“I’m checking in on you. You don’t look so good,” he said. His eyes were pale gray, she noticed—and they had that same strange, otherworldly quality about them that Logan’s did, seeming to almost glow in the dark. She swallowed, feeling the back of her neck drench with sweat. “I don’t feel so good,” she admitted. “I’m jusss trying to find my friendssss and leave.”

“I see.” He peered at her. “Do you want me to help you find them?” he asked, sounding concerned.

His calm affect was soothing, but something about him scared her. Maybe it was his too-pale skin, or the familiar way he regarded her, or his eerie, gray eyes; whatever it was, if her legs had the strength, she would’ve run from him too. 

“No thankssss,” she said, brushing past him as best she could. “I really jusss wanna get out of here.” 

“Very well,” he said. “They’re at the first floor bar. Natalie is sober and Marie is drunk. You have five minutes to get there before they split off again.”

“Thankssss,” she said, her thoughts swimming. Every step she took, she stumbled. Pushing her way past the gyrating dancers, and the young couples making out on the stairwell, she managed to get to the second platform. She groaned as she took in the sight of everyone: all the bodies, lost to the pounding EDM music and strobe lights. One more floor to go. On her way, a few men tried to grab her, their hands coming at her from the darkness. A cold warning of ‘ _you better not_ ,’ from some disembodied voice behind her kept he would-be gropers at bay—and if she was imagining the voice, she was nonetheless grateful for it. She eventually made it to the bar on the first floor, finding a very annoyed Natalie and a very drunk Marie. 

“Jesus,” Nat said, taking in the sight of her. “Where the fuck have you been?”

“Issa longgg story, Nat,” Stella slurred, leaning against the bar. She felt a light slap on her cheek and laughed. It tickled. 

“Stell. Stella, listen to me. Listen to me. Hey. Did someone roofie you?” 

“Hah, roofieeee is such a funny word, ah ha ha ha.”

Another light slap; Nat’s arms were on her shoulders gently shaking her, too. 

“Stella, babe, did someone touch you?”

Stella squinted her eyes at Natalie, tried to parse out what she was saying, but it was becoming harder and harder to do so. “Nooo roofiessss,” she said. “Jussss somme champagne. He passed out on me.”

“So you’re just wasted.” It wasn’t a question.

“Ya,” Stella said, nodding a few too many times. “Real freakin’ wasted, ha ha ha.”

“Jesus, Stell.” Natalie pinched the bridge of her nose. “C’mon, let’s get you two idiots home.” 

Natalie was mad at her; Marie didn’t much care about her either way. 

The only thing Stella had been mildly grateful for regarding Saturday night was that her mother seemed to have stopped calling and texting her. It was a welcome respite from her constant haranguing, and it allowed Stella to gather her thoughts. 

She felt very alone, she realized. And, despite everything, she missed Logan—and she worried about him. Natalie thought she was a lovesick fool—dickmitized, she said—and Stella was starting to agree. She sighed, gathering up her backpack and heading out the door. 

Her phone started ringing, and the number had no caller ID. She swallowed hard, debating on whether or not to let the call go to her voicemail. The seconds went by and it continued to ring; her heart began racing once again. _Pick it up_ , she thought. _Just get it over with_. 

“...Hello?”

“Stella.” 

Her hands shook. “Logan,” she said. She wondered if he could hear how loudly her heart was pounding; it sounded downright thunderous to her. 

“We need to talk.”

“Yes...I do think we do need to talk.”

  
  
  
  
  



	12. Doctor

_Twenty-five Moves That’ll Drive Him Wild! Seven Signs To Look For When a Man Is In Love With You!_

“Bullshit,” Logan said, thumbing through the magazine. He kept reading. _Number One: Slip a Donut Around His Penis and Eat It Off._ “What the fuck…” he whispered. 

“Mr. Black?”

He closed the worn _Cosmo_ issue abruptly, hoping that the doctor didn’t catch what he was reading. He cleared his throat. “Good afternoon, Dr. Murphy.”

“Afternoon. Come on in,” she said, a friendly smile on her face. 

He sat in the leather chair reserved for patients, tapped his fingers against his knee. She sat across from him, cheerful and gentle, and he wasn’t sure what to do with that. 

“So,” she said. 

He cleared his throat again. “So.”

“I understand that you’re here because you’ve been experiencing panic attacks.”

His eyes darted around the office. She had her medical degree from the University of Michigan framed, and a bookshelf full of obscure titles and authors. Her desk was a dark mahogany, similar to his, and he found his thoughts immediately beginning to run hot with images of Stella. He shut his eyes tightly, shook his head. 

“Mr. Black, are you alright?”

“No.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I mean, yes. I’m—I’m fine right now.”

“But you’re not always fine.”

“No.”

Behind Dr. Murphy sat Thanatos, perched on the windowsill, with his wiry arms crossed. Logan could see Than’s black wings folded tightly behind his back. He looked annoyed. “Truth is, I’m a real mess, Doctor.” 

“Let’s explore that,” she said, leaning closer. He looked down at his knee, which was bouncing up and down of its own accord. He willed it to stop.

“I’m having hallucinations.”

“What kind of hallucinations—aural, visual—”

“Everything. Entire people that don’t exist, conversations, reliving memories…” He trailed off, stared at the wall for a long moment. 

“Mr. Black?”

“A lot of these memories," he continued, shaking his head, "they feel like they’re mine—but I know they can’t be. One of them’s this battle. An ancient battle, with swords and shields. I’m fighting, but it’s with a spear. I can feel the blood when it hits my face, the heat of the bodies burning around me. Something stabs me through the back, through the bronze armor I’m wearing. I know I’m dying, even though—even though, I’m not supposed to die.”

“Not supposed to die?”

“Because I’m a god.” He swallowed, trying and failing to cover a nervous laugh. “But between then and now, I think I’ve died over a thousand times.”

“Fifteen hundred, to be exact,” quipped Thanatos. He was now reading the same _Cosmo_ mag that Logan hastily closed in the waiting room. _Prick_ , Logan thought. 

“Fifteen hundred,” Logan corrected. Dr. Murphy was looking at him, but she didn’t seem freaked out, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not. 

“What is it you do, Mr. Black?”

“I’m in the construction business.”

Her bespectacled eyes narrowed, but only slightly. He flexed his fingers, really wishing that he could light up a cigarette. He popped a piece of nicorette gum into his mouth instead. 

“Did you begin hallucinating around the same time as you began having panic attacks?”

“Yes. One precipitates the other.” 

“I see. And how long has this been going on?”

“Around a month or so.”

“Long time to be dealing with something this serious, Mr. Black.”

“Tried toughing it out as long as I could. My, ah, _employees_...they need strong leadership, or else they’ll turn on me. Can’t have that.”

“The employees in your construction business.”

“That’s right.”

She didn’t seem convinced. She was staring at him, sizing him up, it seemed. “You aren’t my first wise guy, you know.”

“That obvious, huh.”

“Just don’t say anything I’ll be obligated to report.” 

He grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Doctor.”

“What finally made you come in?”

He clenched his fist. “I saw my father this weekend.”

Sunday. The day after the whole...thing, happened with Stella. He couldn't stop thinking about her. He dreamt of her, and she was a queen—his queen. She stood next to an oversized pomegranate tree and smiled at him, like she had been expecting him. He walked towards her on unsteady legs, shame and doubt threatening to steal his breath and stop his heart. 

He could hear the shouts of every person he killed, each one begging for their life; each one, becoming easier and easier to snuff out with callous grace. He thought of the Furies, how Alecto said he had smelled fouler than usual. Oh, how right she’d been…

  
  
He collapsed to his knees in front of Persephone. He couldn’t look up at her. 

“My love, please stand.”

“I can’t.” Hot tears ran down his cheeks, unabated. Lost, lost , lost—he felt so lost. “I’ve dishonored you greatly.” 

The gentle, soft touch of her fingers running through his hair made him shudder. She pulled him closer, so that his cheek was pressed against her navel. “You have only dishonored yourself, my love. I wish it were not so, but please do not give up.”

He cried harder, wrapping his arms around her waist as she held him. 

He woke to the sound of heavy knocking against his office door. The room smelled like sex and her perfume. 

“Boss, you awake?” 

The Ambrosia wasn’t on the coffee table anymore. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ “Boss?”

“I’ll be out in a minute, Johnny,” Logan said, pulling on his discarded shirt and slacks. God, even his clothes smelled like her. He could feel the ghost of her lips kissing his throat. He wondered, briefly, if this is how his brothers Will and Pete felt all the time. Evidently there was a gigantic hole within his heart that he needed to fill; his lip curled in disgust. He decided not to think about it.

He opened his door. “What is it, Johnny?”

“Uh,” Johnny sputtered, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Your old man is here.”

Logan blinked once, twice. He couldn’t have heard him correctly. “Viejo is dead.”

“No,” Johnny said, shaking his head vigorously. Logan’s grip on his door handle tightened. “Not _the_ Old Man, Boss. _Your_ old man. Your pops. He’s sitting at the VIP bar—Boss, wait!”

Logan stalked down the hallway to his bar, and lo and behold, the son of a bitch was sitting there, not looking a day past forty.

“Hello, son.”

“The hell are you doin’ here?” 

“What’s with that limp? You sprain your ankle or something?”

“None of your fuckin’ business.”

“Wait—” The voice of Dr. Murphy pulled Logan from his memory. She looked nervously down at his clenched fists. “Before you continue, I just want to reiterate that if you talk about any intent to harm your father, I will have to report it.”

“Nothing like that happened, doc, though I was right pissed to see him after all these years.”

“I take it your relationship is...strained.”

Logan laughed. “My father is probably the meanest son of a bitch who ever set foot on this earth. You ever hear about the Astarita family in South Carolina?”

“Yes, of course, but what does that—oh. Oh no.” Her eyebrows shot up. 

“Yeah. You know that story. He kept my siblings and I locked in a basement for over a year, and when I tried to escape, he beat me within an inch of my life and tried to fuckin’ _eat me_. Only reason he didn’t kill me is because the shock of seeing him tryin’ to take a bite outta my face sent my momma into labor and he had the good sense to call emergency services, or risk her dyin’.”

“I watched the trial on the news years ago. That little boy was you…”

“Yeah.” Logan shut his eyes: he was twelve years old again, being forced to testify against his father, Horatio Astarita. Sofie was there, holding onto her stuffed Piglet toy. Peter and Will had already been adopted by the Fitzgeralds, so they didn’t come to the trial on account of it being needlessly traumatic for them. The Fitzgeralds really wanted Sofie, too.

They didn’t want him, though: Logan had shown too much aggression at school; he was constantly getting into fights, and he had trouble focusing in class. One of his teachers said he was cursed like his daddy and wouldn’t amount to anything, so he attacked the teacher and got suspended for three weeks. That was the incident that made him completely un-adoptable in the Fitzgeralds’ eyes. He was ruined and feral as far as they were concerned. By contrast, Will and Pete were nice and docile children; hell, Will had been raised by the Fitzgeralds basically since his birth, and Pete really didn’t remember much of his time in the basement. But Sofie did remember, and she wouldn’t abandon him—at least, not yet. 

So he and his sister would both spend days testifying as best they could. They were living with their third foster family, the Blacks. The Black family was good; one of the few good foster families around. The mother was a registered travel nurse, and the father was a retired Marine Master Sergeant. Logan remembered him as being a kind man, and a good teacher. Logan learned a lot from him: how to fish; how to catch a baseball; how to keep a house clean, and how to iron his clothes. He’d watch how the two treated each other—he didn’t remember ever seeing them fight, or if they did, it wasn’t for very long—and they just seemed so in love. It was such a stark contrast to how his father and mother behaved. The Blacks wouldn’t adopt him or his sister either, but living with them would come to be one of the few happy memories of his childhood. 

Logan saw his father glaring at him as he took to the witness stand, and he wanted to run like a coward. He had always been such a coward. Logan clenched his jaw, felt the pressure of his molars grinding together. “He was supposed to be in the can for thirty years. He got twenty and time served, and I reckon he got out earlier because of ‘good behavior,’ the fucker. You know what his defense was?” 

“Insanity,” Dr. Murphy. 

“Yeah. Said he was having visions, said he thought I was gonna kill him. A fuckin’ seven-year-old—” The image of gold blood flying through the air flashed before his eyes, the electric shock of an ancient memory, and Logan shuddered. “What a crock, right?”

“Is it a crock, or are you afraid that maybe you’re going through the same thing your father went through—are you afraid he was actually telling the truth?”

“Bullshit he was telling the truth!” He was close to yelling, he realized. He crossed his arms and sank back into his chair, ashamed. At least Dr. Murphy didn’t seem too rattled by his outburst. He supposed that was a good sign. 

“Let me ask you something else. You said you were a god. Which one?”

“The Greek God of the Dead.”

“You mean Ha—”

“Yes.” He nodded. “Please don’t say it. Just hearing the name gives me a migraine for the rest of the day.” 

“Really? That’s interesting. Have you always had that reaction to hearing it?”

He rubbed his temples. He could still feel a migraine coming on, even though she hadn’t finished saying the name. “Just about.”

“And you’re aware that Cronus ate his children in the myths, except for Zeus.”

Those two names sent sharp icepicks through his eyes and into his skull. He groaned. “Yeah, doc.” 

“So what happened with your father at the club? Your Cronus.”

There was a lot Logan wanted to have had happen. He was a man now; had been one for many years, and was blooded several times over. He was a _made_ man, too—and not just a prince, but a _boss_. The Boss of Empire City. And yet he looked at his father, who hadn’t aged a day, and he felt like a scared little boy again. 

“You look like shit,” Horatio said. “Heard that you were made a few years ago, back when I was still in the can. Couldn’t believe it. _My_ kid? Then I heard you were Boss in Empire, and I _really_ couldn’t believe it. Had to see it for myself. Finally lost the baby-face at least.”

Logan thought about what he could do. He had a number of options. He could brain his old man against the marble countertop of the bar. And Eddie was there; Eddie could shoot him, quick and easy. Logan eyed his father’s thick neck—maybe he could strangle him with his bare hands. That would be satisfying. 

Logan couldn’t move, though. Couldn’t bark out his orders to his men, either. All he saw before him was his father, shining and terrible, a titan. And the longer Logan looked at his father, the less courage he had. He was terrified. 

“What, are you mute now, boy?” 

Logan didn’t respond, instead choosing to pivot on his heel and head back into his office, where he promptly shut the door and slid to the floor, holding his chest. His heart was racing and he couldn’t catch his breath. 

“Another panic attack, then,” Dr. Murphy said. 

“Yeah.”

“When was the last time you saw your father?”

“Not since his sentencing. Twenty years ago, now that I think about it. Fucker came all the way to New England to find me and sit at my bar, like he owned the place. And the worst part was that I couldn’t do a damn _thing_.” 

“And you think that without these hallucinations, you probably would have.”

“I don’t know what he’s planning, but I can’t be paralyzed like that again.”

“Gods above, he’s just distracting you,” Thanatos said. He closed his copy of _Cosmo_ with a loud thud, and the sound made Dr. Murphy visibly jump. “You’re a _king,_ Hades. Not the boss of a crime syndicate. I’m glad you’ve finally decided to talk to a shrink, but now is _not_ the time.”

“Leave me alone,” Logan said.

“Mr. Black, who are you talking to?”

“Death.”

Thanatos stood in front of Dr. Murphy and loomed over Logan’s seat. “You know, your son has been trying to see you. It’s not easy for him to come up here.”

“Because he’s not real.” 

“ _Argh_ , what is it with _you?_ You see one woman whom you obsess over and pine after like no one else, and you don’t think that’s strange? You don’t think having vivid memories of her sitting next to you on your throne, of all the lives you’ve had trying to get her back—none of that seems weird to you?”

“Mr. Black—” 

Logan ignored Dr. Murphy. “Sure it does. Means I’m crazy.” 

“My lord, you _love_ her, and are _in love_ with her, and have been since you saw her in that garden. Gods above, she has a piece of your _soul_ _!_ You are the Lord of the Dead and she is your wife, and you need to stop _wasting_ time!” 

“What would you have me do, Than? Tell her that I’m Hades, and she’s Persephone, and that we’re married and have been for _thousands_ of years, and we have a son together, who shouldn’t be alive, but somehow is?”

“ _Yes!_ ” 

“...You’re nuts. Besides, she doesn’t want anything to do with me.” Dr. Murphy was writing down notes quickly. Logan hoped he was being entertaining enough for her. 

“Because in your infinite wisdom, you chose the life-path of a criminal. But she’s not free from the burden of your marriage, either. A part of her soul rests entwined with yours.”

His heart skipped a beat. “What?”

“You heard me just fine. Why do you think you moved to New England?”

“Change of pace—”

“No. You knew she was here. Demeter tried to keep her hidden, perhaps even without realizing it, but you always find her. And she always finds you. Such is the burden of marrying in the old way of the titans.” Than’s pale gray eyes roiled like storm clouds. He was being serious. “I need you two to figure this out already. Remember who you are and come back to us.” 

“ _No_.” 

“Fates, you are _impossible_.” And just like that, Thanatos disappeared, like he had never been in the office to begin with. Logan’s gaze shifted back to Dr. Murphy, whose eyebrows were raised high above her glasses. Her fingers were pressed together like an a-frame tent. “My apologies, Doc.”

“Is this woman real?”

“What woman?”

“Your Persephone.”

Logan shut his eyes. He could feel her fingers running through his hair, could feel the smooth skin of her shoulder against his lips. He popped in another nicorette gum. “She’s very real. College student. ECU.”

“And why doesn’t she want anything to do with you, in your estimation?”

“She’s a smart woman.”

“And your son?”

“Don’t have one.”

“I see...Okay, Mr. Black. I’m going to write a couple of scripts for you. Prozac and lithium. We’ll meet the same time next week to see how you’re doing.”

  
  
And that was that. She sent him on his way, and he went home. He laid in bed, in sheets that still smelled like her no matter how many times he washed them, or wholesale replaced them, and felt himself grow hard instantly. He groaned, miserable. “This is ridiculous.”

He had zero control over himself: his mind was fractured, and his body did whatever it wanted, like he was a damn teenager. And it didn’t help that Than’s words kept repeating themselves in his head. _Her soul rests entwined with yours_. Of course, _that_ only added to the throbbing sensation of his cock. 

“Go away,” he said, frustrated. Maybe if he took an ice cold shower—no, then he’d be naked and it would just be easier to jack off. Was he just going to think about her at every waking moment for the rest of his life? She left him on the _ground_ , for fuck’s sake! She didn’t _want_ him, and it only made sense that she shouldn’t—but _she_ was all _he_ wanted. Was this the torture he earned, to forever yearn for a woman he could never be with? He opened his nightstand and pulled out one of his many burners, along with her number. 

He dialed her number slowly and purposefully, dreading the press of each subsequent digit. He hoped that she wouldn’t answer, but she picked up almost immediately. Just as quickly, she agreed to meet him at the Iron Mask Restaurant for dinner the next day. 

He stared up at his ceiling, giddy and nervous. _Oh man_ , he thought. _What the hell am I doing?_

  
  



	13. Bellum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love all your feedback! Y'all rock. This chapter is a doozie. Prepare yourselves. ;)

_What the hell am I doing?_ she thought. 

Stella stared at herself in the mirror. She owned one dining gown, and she was wearing it tonight. The dress had an asymmetric strap, and it was made of a soft, synthetic material that emulated silk. She pursed her lips, unsure if she pulled the look off. 

“Stop fussing,” Natalie said. She was munching on a bowl of yogurt and granola; her mouth sounded slightly full as she talked. “You look hot.” 

“Thanks, Nat.” Natalie didn’t exactly, well, _approve_ of Stella’s decision to meet with Logan Black for dinner, but she was a good friend and tried to be supportive—which is more than what Stella could say about her mother. And sure: at first, Stella had been grateful for the silence, but now she felt...cut off, somehow. Disowned. It didn’t feel good.

“Iron Mask, right?” Stella nodded, swallowed hard. She was anxious to see him, and that anxiety churned with Stella’s nagging uncertainty about her mother. 

“Fancy place,” Nat finished. “Call me if you need anything. I’m gonna drink my cider and watch horror movies on Netflix. Use that pocket knife I gave you if he tries anything funny.” 

Stella flipped off her friend with a casual laugh as she walked out the door. She didn’t bring a jacket; it had been unseasonably warm this October. Instead she wrapped her mother’s maroon shawl around herself, and hoped that she looked sophisticated, like a rich patron of the Iron Mask restaurant, and not the anonymous daughter of Empire City’s hard-charging DA. 

The Uber driver pulled up; Stella sat in the back. The driver whistled. “Hot date tonight?” she asked. She had a thick Bostonian accent. Stella’s cheeks burned.

“We’ll see,” Stella said, looking out the window. It was a nice evening. Cafes and restaurants still had their patios set up, and Empire City denizens were taking advantage of the warm weather, sitting outside.

  
  
The drive took about twenty minutes, and when she arrived, he was outside waiting for her. He smiled when he saw her, soft and warm. She felt like she was melting. Man, did he look good. Perfect, even: and he was framed by immaculate, expensive-looking cars—well, with the exception of one silver Kia that looked mildly out of place—and dressed in a sharp, three piece suit, as tall and handsome as he’d ever been.

  
  
Before she could stop herself, she ran up to him, grabbed the back of his neck, and pulled him down for a kiss. He gasped in surprise, but she could feel his soft lips smiling against her mouth. 

“You sure know how to say hello,” he said into her ear, holding her tightly; a lover’s embrace. He moved back from her to look her in the eyes, his right hand cupping her face. “Thought you were still sore with me.”

“I am.”

“Hmm.” His thumb brushed her cheek and she leaned into his touch; the skin on his palm was calloused but smooth, a working man’s hands. His deep blue eyes held her gaze, captivating her like the flickering tongues of a fresh fire. The expression on his face was a potent mixture of affection and reverence. Soft, loving; she was losing her will to stay away from him, if she ever had any will at all. “Well, you look beautiful. Sore or not.”

Once again, her cheeks felt hot. “You’re looking pretty dapper yourself.”

“The food looks even better, I promise.” He winked at her, and all she wanted to do was kiss him again. “Wanna go in?” 

“Yes please—I’m starving.” He made sound, a distinctly masculine rumble of approval, and placed his arm over her shoulder. _This woman is with me_ , the gesture said. Or, more darkly: _This woman is mine_. She allowed it: against her better judgement, against all her instincts of self-preservation, she wanted to be his for the evening. He was a man, and she was a woman, and it really was just that simple. 

As they stepped into the restaurant, Stella gasped. Natalie had called Iron Mask fancy, and that was the understatement of the century. The place radiated sophistication and wealth; it felt like the favorite dining spot of old money. Plates of delicious food and glasses of wine covered nearly every surface. She spotted dishes she couldn’t identify: luscious meats and pastas she’d never seen before. Every table had a fresh loaf of bread and a tin of olive oil and vinegar for dipping. She felt like she was in a movie; like she would see a famous actor walk through the door at any moment. 

The more Stella looked, the more she noticed the high-society and country club types seated at each table. Rich older women with pearl necklaces out on the town with their stock broker husbands. Well-established doctors; city officials; probably a couple of Logan’s captains, too. Stella thought she might have even seen her congressman eating with the president of ECU. She looked down at her gown, which she had purchased secondhand, and suddenly felt very overwhelmed and unwelcome. And, _God_ , were people staring at her? 

There was clear judgement in their eyes. Was it her tattoos? Her youth? The color of her skin? An older wealthy couple actually turned in their seats to stare at her, and the woman sneered. Stella trembled; she wanted to cry. 

“Hey, you okay?” His voice steadied her. She didn’t understand him, or his...proclivity for being gentle with her. It didn’t make sense; it almost felt like a trick. He had to be tricking her—he was a gangster, after all. She’d see his violence soon enough. As it was right now, though, she pressed herself closer to him, like his big body could shield her from their prying eyes. “I feel like I’m being gawked at.”

“It’s ‘coz you’re so pretty, and they’re old and crusty,” he whispered into her ear. She stifled a nervous giggle. “Ignore ‘em.” 

“Miss Porter, Mr. Black, your table is ready. Follow me.” 

Their seats had a view of the waterfront. Sparkling Christmas lights adorned the guardrail, even though it was only the middle of October. Still, the sight was pretty: the lights reflected off the river, and boats leisurely meandered their way past. The band was close enough that she could hear their music, but not so loud as to drown out conversation. _Romantic_ , she thought. This was a real, adult date, and once again anxiety needled her. 

“Comfortable?” he asked her, his eyes catching hers as he perused the menu.

“Yes. I think I’m...just a little overwhelmed, is all.”

“It’s a lot to take in.” He smiled at her, warm and kind. “I like comin’ here, though. It’s a good spot for people watchin’. I like lookin’ out at the waterfront, seein’ all the couples dancin’ in the plaza.”

“Do you like dancing?”

“Aw, hell, I wish. Got two left feet, unfortunately.” He winked at her, leaned forward in his seat. “Why, darlin’—you like dancin’?”

He kept looking at her like she was the only person in the world. _Oh no_ , she thought, swallowing hard. _I think I might be falling for you_. “I’m in the ballroom dance club at ECU. I could probably teach you—” her cheeks burned red hot. “Y’know, if you’d like.”

“I reckon you could. Teach an old dog like me all _sorts_ of new tricks.” 

She cleared her throat, choosing to look away from him for a moment. Damn him; he was always making her feel like she was losing control. “I dunno, can old dogs learn new tricks?” She batted her eyelashes in the way she knew sent his blood boiling. She needed to gain some ground against him; needed to steady herself against the rush of emotions just sitting with him caused inside her heart. 

“This ol’ dog is willin’ to try.” His grin grew wider. “You’re too damn cute for your own good, you know that?”

“I’ve been told,” she said. The waiter brought her wine; she took a sip and ordered her meal: caprese salad and shrimp scampi pasta. He ordered a simple rigatoni, drank some of his water. “No wine for you?” 

“I’m tryin’ to watch my figure,” he teased. His figure was fine, and he knew she knew it. He reached for her hand, and she let him take it, even though her mind screamed at her to say no. “I’m really glad you agreed to meet with me, Stella.” 

“I’m still not sure why I did,” she admitted. She looked down at the heavy hand holding hers. She really liked his hands: they were large, just like the rest of him, but not overly so. They boasted strong knuckles and prominent veins, and a couple of old scars that she would always be hesitant to ask about. She turned his hand over, looked at the lines in his palm and traced them. “For whatever reason, I can’t stay away from you. Even though I know I should.”

“Stella…”

She continued to trace his palm. Life line, heart line, fate line, over and over again. If she looked into his eyes, she wouldn’t be able to speak. “And it feels weird to admit it—maybe you’ll think I’m crazy or something, and we can finally go our separate ways—but I dream about you. Like, a lot.” 

“...You...you dream about me?”

“Yeah. And it’s you, but it’s also...not you. I don’t know what to do about that, Logan.” Gathering her courage, she looked up at him, and he was scared. She never thought she would see an emotion like fear twist across Logan Black’s face, but it was there, raw and unmistakable. “I don’t know what to do about you,” she finished. 

He opened his mouth, closed it. His brow furrowed. He tried again. “Stella—”

He got cut off by the waiter bringing their food, and whatever he was about to say, he smothered it. Even in the low light, she could see the tips of his ears burning red. She took a bite out of her caprese salad to distract herself. Not surprisingly—and thankfully—it was delicious. She made a mental note to buy fresh mozzarella the next time she was down in Little Italy. She glanced up at him quickly; he was eating too, but didn’t seem to be enjoying his food nearly as much as her. _Oh,_ _Logan_...They ate in silence for a few minutes, until finally he cleared his throat to get her attention. 

“I made my decision,” he said, with deadly seriousness. 

“Er,” she said, half-mumbling into her food. “Decision?”

“I want to be with you.” 

If her eyebrows sprang up any farther, they would’ve been off her head. “Come again?”

He grabbed her hand once more, this time with urgency, like if he didn’t, he’d never have the chance to ever again. “I mean it, Stella.”

“Like—like a relationship?” There was a lump in her throat. He couldn’t be serious! There was no way it could work. She was in college, just figuring her life out, and—and for _Pete’s sake_ , he was a _gangster!_ “Logan, I don’t—”

“Any way you want,” he said, breathless. His face was so open, so soft and vulnerable, and she wanted him. She _wanted_ him, she did; like she had never wanted anything or anyone before. _It can never be_ , she told herself. 

“How is this going to work?” She could feel tears threatening to fall. “Our worlds are too different. You don’t even know me.”

“I _do_ know you.” She could hear him struggling with trying to keep his voice steady. “You said you were havin’ dreams about me? Well, I think about you all the time. Every moment I open my eyes, I see you: how the sun catches in your hair, the way you bite your lip when you’re thinkin’ real hard. Fuck, Stella, the perfume you wear sticks to my skin and my clothes. You’re everywhere, all around me, all the time. And I’ve tried to keep my distance, for your sake as much as mine...But I think about you, and I can’t. Not being around you...it’s torture for me, Stella. You’re under my skin.” 

She wiped the tears from the edges of her eyes, doing her best not to ruin her makeup. “Sounds like you’re obsessed with me.” She was only half-joking.

“I am,” he said, with no hint of humor or irony at all. “From the moment you walked into my bar. You _haunt_ me. And I...I have a feelin’ I haunt you, too.”

“Logan,” she whispered. “My mother…”

“Your _mother_.” He looked away from her and clenched his jaw tightly, like he was struggling to pry the words from his own mouth. “Look. I know I’m not a good man,” he said. There was a long pause; she could hear his heart beating. He squeezed her palm gently, then continued: “There’s no gettin’ around that. I’ve clipped guys with just my hands, and I’ve ordered guys to be clipped. It’s a dirty, violent business, and I hate that...that I’m part of it. But I—I can be _good_ for you, Stella. Provide for you. I can—” He stopped talking suddenly, and then started up again. “No, I can’t tell her that. She won’t believe me, you idiot! Just—just get out of my head already!” 

She stared at him. He was talking to himself. No, he was _arguing_ with himself. “Logan?” 

His eyes caught hers; he ran his other trembling hand through his hair. “I’m sorry for that, darlin’. I must seem crazy to you.”

“You worry me,” she said. “Maybe you should—” she stopped; she wasn’t about to tell a goddamn gangster to see a therapist. “I care about you,” she said instead.

“But we can’t be together.” 

“I just...I don’t see how it can work.” She felt like she was tearing herself apart. She did want to be with him. She _did_. The desire burned in every part of her, and it was overwhelming. But...

“It can. I can be a good man for you, Stella, I prom—”

“Greetings.” The unfamiliar voice startled the both of them; she had to stifle a gasp. The openness she saw in Logan’s face immediately turned to stone, and he became unknowable to her; cold. This was the man other people saw. The sudden change sent a chill down her spine. 

“This is a private conversation, kid. Get lost.” 

She turned her head to look at the man who had interrupted them and consciously had to keep her mouth from dropping open. The green eyes; the ringed fingers; the impeccable black suit. “... _Hunter_ _?_ ” 

“You know this guy?” Logan’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. He looked from her to Hunter, and back to her again. 

“My apologies,” Hunter said, in that lightly accented English whose origins she couldn’t quite place. He was just a kid, fifteen at most, tall and lanky like a beanpole. What the hell was he doing here? “Thanatos told me you were both here and I had to make the trip.”

“Thanatos?” Logan asked, alarmed. Thanatos, Thanatos—that name sounded vaguely familiar. Pale gray eyes, wiry arms, ghostly white skin. The assistant. 

“Than?” she offered, feeling increasingly on edge. 

Logan stared at her, his stony facade shattered. He looked like a deer caught in headlights. “Wait, you’ve talked to Than?” 

“Er…” She wasn’t sure whether or not to admit that fact; Logan had started rubbing his temples, looking more agitated than she had ever seen him. Still, she decided telling the truth was better than trying to think up some elaborate lie on the spot. “Yeah...at the club. He said he was your... consigliere? I think.”

“Oh my _God_.” He sat back in his seat, loosened his tie, shot a glance up at Hunter. “You’re seeing this guy too, right?” Logan asked, not taking his blazing eyes off Hunter, who stifled a bad cough and started to look green and uncomfortable. “I mean, yeah...Logan, are you okay?”

“So who are you supposed to be, hmm, Hunter?” 

“I’m so sorry—” Hunter coughed again. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to intrude so rudely, and I thought Thanatos had made it clear that—” another cough— “I’m your son.” 

_Son?_ Stella stared at the two of them, completely gobsmacked. 

Logan stood abruptly, knocking down the chair behind him. “The _fuck_ did you just say?” Some guests turned their heads to the sound of the commotion. She peered at Hunter closely, feeling her heartbeat start to accelerate the longer she looked at him. He did have a lot of the same features as Logan, she realized. Square jaw, sharp cheekbones, the shape of his lips. To be honest, Hunter was a damn teenaged carbon copy of the man—with the exception of his eyes, which were, strangely, the same color green as her own. 

“Father, forgive me,” Hunter said, putting his hands up. Logan was slowly stalking towards him, and there was a raging fury in his eyes, cold as ice. That coldness gripped her heart, and for the first time since she met him, she felt genuinely afraid. 

Logan gripped the lapels of Hunter’s blazer, seething with barely-controlled anger. “I’m not your fucking father.”

Hunter coughed again, and Stella felt paralyzed. More guests were staring at them now; she could hear the clucking of gossip and gasps of shock over the band’s music. “I didn’t mean to upset you—I was under the impression you understood all this—”

“I’m gonna give you ten seconds to tell me who put you up to this shit, before I start breakin’ your fuckin’ fingers, you understand? One, two—” 

“Logan, please, let him go—”

“Father, it’s me,” Hunter said. He was shaking. Just a frightened teenager. “It’s me: Zagreus. Please.”

“...Zagreus?” Logan blinked, looking confused. Hearing the name Zagreus made her feel strange, too, like she was floating. It was an odd name, like Thanatos, and anxiety prickled at her skin the more she thought about how strange it was.

“Yes,” Hunter said again. “There’s no trick—” another cough, this time with blood. Just as quickly as Logan had grabbed Hunter, he released him. He looked down at his hands with wide eyes, and then back up to Hunter, like he was in shock. The seconds passed. For all the commotion, Hunter was smiling. “Father, I—”

“You’re sick,” Logan said finally. He sounded tired, and not...not quite like himself. “Go home.” 

“But, Father—” another cough. 

“ _Now_.” Logan glanced back at her, and she very much wanted to run. He sounded different; _looked_ different. Like, _unfathomably_ older. It scared her. “I have to talk with your mother.” She shook her head, not liking what he had just implied _at all_. 

_He’s out of his mind_ , she thought. 

The Iron Mask’s owner was finally coming over to their table to see what was wrong. “Logan, is everything all right?” 

“Yeah, Artie, everything is fine. My son was just _leaving_.” Stella looked around for the kid, but Hunter was nowhere to be seen. Gone, as if he had just disappeared into the night...like he was made from shadow. Alarm was coursed through her. She stuck her hand in her purse and gripped the pocket knife Nat gave her. She’d had enough. 

“I think I’ll be going too,” she said, slowly standing up from the table. She kept thinking about Hunter’s eyes, how they were such a distinct green. They were the same color as her eyes, and that made her feel strangely nauseous. She needed to leave—she couldn’t be around Logan Black anymore, no matter how much she wanted him, no matter how much her heart screamed at her to stay. He was instability and danger, and Zagreus—who names their kid _Zagreus_ _?_ —he had _her_ eyes.

_You are Persephone: the Dread Queen of the Underworld, and my wife._

No. _No_. 

Logan was delusional, and she refused to be pulled down with him. She _refused_. He was a man—not a god, not a god—and she was a woman, and it was just that simple. She ran. Past scandalized restaurant-goers and waiters; she _ran_. She could hear him calling out after her, but she was nimble and quick, and he had to squeeze past people slowly or risk bulldozing over them. 

She ran for blocks and blocks, only stopping when the heel of her shoe broke, and she fell forward onto the pavement, hard. “Fuck me,” she groaned, pushing herself up onto her elbows. Strange...there was a light coating of snow on the ground.

“Stella!”

_Run, run, run._ She tried to get up, but her ankle protested. She looked down at her foot and almost fainted: shards of bone were sticking through her skin. Her eyes darted around feverishly as the chill of the night seeped deep into her flesh. The street was dark, but she could make out the name: Grant. Miracle Mile was the cross street. She swallowed. Not a good area to be caught in at night. 

A car drove past, the silver one that she had seen earlier outside the restaurant. It had blended in then, but it was all she could see now: her knight in shining armor. She called out for help, but the driver kept going.

“This can’t be happening,” she wheezed. The cold air pierced through her lungs like daggers. Tears poured from her eyes and she coughed, feeling his warm presence coming to rest beside her long before she heard him. He knelt next to her, touched her forehead softly. “Jesus, darlin’, you’re bleeding.”

“Get away from me,” she said, dragging herself forward. She could hear him dialing a number, even as her head swam. Dogs barked loudly; a cat hissed in the alleyway next to them. Her breath formed a cloud in front of her face. It was fucking freezing. She pushed forward anyway.

“ _Fates_ , Persephone, stop it, you’re hurting yourself!”

“I’m _not_ Persephone!” she shouted at him. His hand went to his chest like she had stabbed him. _Good_ , she thought. “I’m not your long-lost wife or whatever the hell else you think I am! I’m _me_ , Stella Porter!”

“Don’t lie to yourself,” he whispered, and his voice was gentle, even though she hurt him. “You’ve spoken to Than. You’ve dreamed about me, seated on a throne. I know you have.”

“No—no, it’s not real—it’s _not_ —”

“I’m not going to hurt you, Stella Porter. I never could.”

“You’re a _monster_ ,” she spat. There was a platinum crown on his head now, in the shape of olive leaves. _No. “_ And you’re fucking crazy!”

“I know.” He smiled sadly at her. “I know I am. Just stay awake for me until EMS gets here.”

From the corner of her eye, she spotted the same car driving back towards them. He turned towards the car, reaching into his suit jacket, and pulled out a pistol. “ _Fucking pest_ ,” he growled, irate. “Do me a favor, sweetheart: cover your ears and close your eyes.” 

She didn’t, though; couldn’t, really—it all happened too fast. He took aim at the car from where he knelt next her and fired, causing the vehicle to swerve. The gunshot was deafening, louder than any firework she had ever heard in her life. She screamed, and screamed even louder when whoever was in the vehicle returned fire. The bullet whizzed past her and grazed Logan’s ear, causing him to flinch and miss his next shot. Another bullet came from the darkened window of the car, this time hitting Logan square in the chest, and he cursed, looking down at the rapidly expanding stain of red. “Damn good shot,” he gasped. 

“Logan!” she screamed. She saw his platinum crown shatter, and he looked at her, terrified. Another bullet, as loud and murderous as the first, lodged itself in the same spot. The pistol fell from his hands, clattering to the pavement. His head lolled forward; she could see his breath, sporadic clouds of exhalation in the cold. Stella grabbed the fallen weapon without a second thought. 

A masked man stepped out of the car, aiming his gun at Logan’s head. “Son of a bitch, fucking die already!”

“You stay away from him!” She felt so useless. Just a sad, scared little girl, broken and stupid, while a man she cared for was bleeding out on the pavement like a stuck pig. She aimed the gun at the masked hitman with trembling hands, and he only regarded her for a half second before shaking his head and firing at his target. The shots, two in rapid succession, ran straight through Logan’s skull. He fell back onto the snowy ground, heavy, drained of color, and lifeless. He wasn’t a god; he was just a man. A dead one. No. _No_. She screamed, dropping the gun. _Not like this_. 

She crawled over to him, through the snow and his pooling blood, cradling his head to her breast like she could will him back to the land of the living with her touch. She said his name, over, and over, and over again. Her tears were hot; they steamed when they fell onto his face. Her throat felt raw. She couldn’t hear anything as the man got back into his car and sped away; couldn’t hear anything as the sirens of an ambulance pulled up. 

Paramedics surrounded her. Stella vomited on one of them; she mumbled an apology she couldn’t hear. “Leave me alone,” she said...or at least, _thought_ she said. “Treat him. _Save_ him. Please.” 

They looked at her, confused. She tried reading their lips: “concussion,” she thought she saw one say.

“...other patient?” 

“No, she’s...one here.” 

“Who....the call?”

“...covered...blood—”

“...no one....her—”

She felt dizzy. It was snowing harder now. The air was frigid and the wind whipped at her skin. Her thoughts moved slowly, stuck in the quicksand of her mind. _Logan_ , she thought. “I’m so sorry.” She cried. One of the paramedics covered her with a shock blanket. His hands on her shoulders were reassuring, and when she looked up at him, she saw pale, gray eyes.

“Than?” Her body was burning. “Than, he’s—he’s _dead_ —oh, _God_ —”

“Rest, my lady,” he said, touching her forehead. She was asleep instantly. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told y'all this chapter was a doozie! lol. Hope you guys enjoyed it.


	14. Demons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, time for our boi Henry, who is a nerd just trying his best, tbh

Detective Henry Olsen was freaking the fuck out. There was a bullet hole in his windshield; shit, actually, there were _two_. The sound of his heart pumping was the only thing he could hear, each individual beat as loud as a gunshot. Even as the startling red and blue lights of emergency services turned into small dots in his rearview mirror, his heart kept its painful pace. His fingers twisted tightly around the steering wheel of his car, his grip hampered by a torrent of sweat. He sped down the dark city streets to his apartment, praying that one of his colleagues wouldn’t catch him going a hundred miles per hour through what was very quickly becoming a blizzard. Shadowed alleyways played tricks on him, producing nightmarish visions of creatures he knew couldn’t exist, _didn’t_ exist, but scared him senseless anyway. Many times, Henry thought he saw the burning blue eyes of the man he just killed, his white cheshire smile glittering in the dark, and Henry had to fight the urge to vomit. His eyes darted feverishly between the road and the weapon resting on his passenger seat.

Two to the chest, two to the head. Four goddamn bullets for a son of a bitch who wasn’t worth the lead. Disbelief at the fact that he’d been wounded, and then a taunting smile, even as he was bleeding out and turning the snow beneath him into a horrorshow of gore. _Fucker_ , Henry thought. Took him too long to die. Should’ve died with the first bullet to the heart, instantly. The fact that it took three more tries burned Henry, charred him, enraged him. He felt sick; he wanted to die in that moment, and wished that Stella had shot him down before he could finish his murderous assignment. “ _Motherfucker!_ ” Henry screamed, slamming his fists against the steering wheel. Logan Black took too damn long to die, but he eventually did, and now Henry was a murderer. “God, oh God,” he cried, swallowing a rock that threatened to choke him.

  
  
Parking, he holstered the murder weapon slowly, as if in a trance, and removed his license-plate cover. There was a throbbing sensation in his neck that was beginning to burn and sting, and when his hand touched it, he felt the wetness of his blood and the torn skin of his flesh. His stomach dropped; he almost fainted. Fear kept him conscious, though; fear of the shadows on the street, and the smile that haunted him.

  
  
Henry ran into his apartment, nearly bowling over Eric. “How’d you get in here?”

“You need better locks,” Eric said, teasing, grabbing Henry’s waist. “I wanted to surprise ya.”

“Can’t now,” Henry said, pushing Eric off him. His neck was searing. 

“Jesus, babe, what’s the rush?” 

“Move.”

“Baby, what’s going on? You’re—you’re hurt—”

Henry ran into his bathroom, locking the door. Eric wasn’t supposed to be here. He’d ask questions; he was already asking them, kept knocking on the door, concerned, and the sound was loud, so fucking _loud_. “Four shots,” Henry whispered, looking at himself in the mirror. 

“Babe, you’re scaring me,” Eric said through the door. 

“You need to leave.” Henry stared at the torn flesh on his neck. Nothing vital hit, but very close; a hair’s breadth from his carotid. The wound had stopped bleeding so profusely, but it wasn’t a superficial scratch. He’d need stitches...probably several. He groaned. “Shit, never mind,” Henry said. “Come in here.” He unlocked the door and Eric entered, nervous and trembling.

“Baby…” Eric reached out. Henry flinched. “What happened?”

“Work stuff. Can you stitch me up?” 

Eric gulped. “I...I don’t know—”

“You’re a nurse, aren’t you?” Henry grimaced at the sharpness he heard in his voice. Eric was just scared, and he couldn’t be blamed for that. 

“Nursing student.” Eric sniffed. _Too soft and sensitive_ , Henry thought. One of the many reasons he just wanted things to stay casual between them. Eric’s big, soulful brown eyes were looking up at him, and all Henry wanted to do was scream. “I’d do it myself,” Henry said, softer this time. “But I can’t reach it right.”

“We can drive to the hospital—”

“ _No_ ,” Henry growled, startling himself with how angry he sounded. He shut his eyes, counted to five, and exhaled. His neck was burning. “No, babe, I need you to do it. Please.”

“O—” sniff, “Okay.”

So Eric set to work. Clearing and then disinfecting the wound made Henry grind his teeth together in a vice. His rage burned fiercely at Logan Black, who had not only turned him into a murderer, but had also forced him to endure this pain. _Motherfucker_. If Henry had noticed the wound then, in that dark street, he would’ve filled Black’s horrific, oversized body with even more lead—Stella’s presence be damned. Henry motioned for Eric to bring in the only bottle of tequila he owned, but Eric shook his head. “That’ll just make you bleed more.”

“Maybe I want to bleed more.”

“What?”

Henry looked away. The shadows in his apartment danced, taunting him. “Never mind.” He hissed when the needle pierced his skin, kicked out his feet as the thread looped through his ruined flesh. Eric stopped. “I think you need to go to the hospital.”

“I already told you. _No_.”

“Then stop fidgeting and let me work then, huh.” Eric slapped his shoulder playfully. Henry groaned. “Big baby.”

“It hurts!” 

“Yeah, and? It’s gonna. You don’t wanna go to a doctor—”

“Just hurry up already. Christ.” Henry's ass was starting to go numb from sitting on the sink counter. Just one more bad feeling to add to the noxious soup he had bubbling in his stomach. _I want to go home_ , he thought, not sure what that meant. He _was_ home, in his apartment, and yet— _I want to go home_. He said it aloud. 

“You are home, silly.”

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

“Yeah, okay. Let me fix this booboo and you’ll feel better. You’re not cute when you’re grumpy.” He was getting tired of Eric. Eric, who was sweet and handsome, who wanted nothing more than to smooth away his worries, who was stitching up a wound he knew he shouldn’t—and Henry couldn’t stand him. 

He looked out into the living room of his apartment, daring the shadows to come closer. _I’m here,_ he thought. _Come and get me._

As if meeting the challenge, he saw two blue flames emerge from the gloom, at first flickering, but then growing stronger with each passing moment. The twin tongues of fire bore into him, and a wolfish, knowing grin flashed in the darkness. “Killing a man ain’t easy, is it?” the grin said. Henry swallowed. Out of the shadows, Logan Black appeared, full and real, and Henry couldn’t speak. “Though, you’re a damn good shot, Henry. Well done.”

It was surreal, seeing the man he just killed, waltz around with two bullet holes in his forehead. Logan Black squeezed into Henry’s small bathroom, a subtle limp in his stride as he went to sit down on the edge of the tub. His grin never faltered. He reached into his bloodied suit jacket, pulled out a soaked pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “Mind if I smoke?”

“I mean you’re dead, so...have at it, I guess.” Distantly, Henry felt the pull of a thread, the piercing of a needle through his flesh. 

“Thank you kindly,” Black said, lighting up a cigarette. He took a long drag, Henry noticed. Shut his eyes and exhaled with a sigh of pleasure that sounded vaguely erotic and made Henry flush. “Been a long time since I smoked. Needed that.” He looked back up at Henry, and Henry couldn’t stop staring at the blood oozing from the man’s forehead. “Looking a little green there, detective. Want one?” He held out the blood-soaked pack, and when Henry swallowed the lump in his throat, he could taste bile. 

“No, thanks.”

Black shrugged, rolled his great neck atop his thick shoulders. Took another drag, exhaled. His entire torso was red. Where he sat, blood started to pool; burning crimson against freezing white, just like in the snow.

“So what’s this,” Henry started, the urge to retch pulling at him, and growing harder to ignore, “Are you, like, my conscious now? Are you going to haunt me forever?”

Black’s lips turned up around his cigarette. “You didn’t answer me before, so I’ll ask again: killing a man ain’t easy, is it? Leaves you...stained.”

“I didn’t kill a man,” Henry said. “I killed you.”

Black laughed at that, a real sick chuckle that sounded metallic and violent, like knives being sharpened against a whetstone. He stood, adjusted his ruined suit jacket, and walked over to Henry with no limp to speak of. A towering monster, fueled by greed and hate. His face leaned in, so close that Henry could smell the iron stench of blood on his breath. 

“I reckon you’re right about one thing, Henry,” Black said, cupping his bloody palm on Henry’s cheek. 

“What’s that?” Henry was trying not to faint. This couldn’t be real; Black was _dead_. Four shots that hit true! It was impossible—and Eric, well, Eric hadn’t reacted to Black’s looming presence at all. _I’m just freaking out_ , Henry thought. _I need a drink_. But Logan Black’s great paw was on his face, and he could feel the stickiness of the man’s drying blood covering his callouses. 

Black grinned, and all Henry could see was red. “I am no man.” 

“A monster,” Henry said, shuddering. “A...a ghoul.”

“Perhaps.” Black’s hand went from cupping Henry’s cheek to ruffling his hair, and the unmistakably paternal gesture made Henry’s stomach clench and flip in turn. “Give my regards to Cassie, kid. Tell her you got me good.” He stepped back into the shadows, disappearing like black smoke in the dark. 

“All done,” Eric said, his light voice pulling Henry from the abyss. He kissed Henry on the cheek, the exact spot where Black’s poisonous hand had left a stain of red. “Might get a sexy scar out of it—Henry, baby, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Baby, you’re crying.”

Henry couldn’t remember the last time he had cried. It’d definitely been a few years. The wetness on his face felt alien. Another kiss on the cheek from Eric, a tender caress on his forehead. The tears flowed out of him, the dam destroyed. He saw Stella in the snow, aiming a bloody gun at him. Protecting Logan Black, when it was _his_ fault she was there, broken and bleeding. “Babe…”

“Oh, God,” Henry moaned, pressing his head into Eric’s chest. Eric held him, cooed and kept him close. It wasn’t enough.

  
  
It’d never be enough. 

  
  
  
  
  
  



	15. Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> buckle up, fam. it's time for some revelations

The impact of the bullet was instantaneous. Its power tore through flesh, obliterated bone, and left a cavern of destruction in its wake. There was pain: scorching, unrelenting agony that set every nerve on fire, until all Logan could feel was the brokenness of his chest and the hole in his heart. 

He’d never been shot before. Shot _at_ thousands of times, and grazed, sure—and blown up too, though the hit wasn’t direct. But shot? He looked down, at first unable to comprehend that a bullet had pierced his heart, and that he still could see and feel despite that fact. He heard a woman say his name, and he looked at her, but he couldn’t keep his eyes focused, couldn’t keep his heavy skull up, so he turned away. 

The seconds dragged on. Another bullet came, carving the same path through his body. His arms tingled for a moment and then went numb. Something fell from his hands; he heard it clatter. 

His head was heavy. He rested his chin against his chest. That felt good. He just needed to sleep. Everything would be okay if he took a quick nap. There was a voice—two voices, male and female, screaming and cursing. He forced himself to look up at the man standing before him. The man was aiming a gun at him. If his heart was somehow still beating, he couldn’t feel it.  
  


Logan smiled. The pain was going away. He didn’t even feel cold anymore. The seconds ticked by. He waited. He didn’t feel the next two bullets as they went through his head, but he saw them, looking down at himself. 

Thanatos was next to him, hand on his shoulder. “I tried to make it painless,” he said, sounding morose. 

“So this is it, then,” Logan said. “I’m dead.”

“Yes.” Thanatos turned to him. “But only mostly dead.”

“Mostly dead?”

Thanatos grinned. Logan didn’t understand what he could possibly be smiling about. “Of course. Mostly dead is still slightly alive.”

“Are you...are you jokin’ with me?”

“Have you not seen _The Princess Bride_?” 

Logan blinked. “What does that have to do with—”

Thanatos rolled his pale eyes. “Never mind. Luckily, I planned for something like this, and your son is softhearted enough that he’ll look the other way as regent.” Thanatos reached towards Logan’s unmoving body on the ground. Stella was crying over him. He’d caused her so much pain. That’s all he did, right? All he did was hurt people...especially the people he cared about.

“Maybe it’s just better if I stay dead.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Hades. This isn’t just about you.” 

“Than—”

He couldn’t say anything else: the world blazed white, and he was in his body, soundlessly screaming as he looked up at Apollo, who currently had his hands _inside_ his chest. 

“Relax, Uncle.” He didn’t relax: he could see and feel Apollo’s golden, shimmering fingers inside him, touching his heart, reforming it, bit by bit, stitching together his bones and his flesh, and his lungs burned. 

“Can’t you work faster?”

“Excuse me, dear Death, but this is a delicate process. And he’s quite squirmy.”

“I can feel his soul slipping to the Other Side—”

Logan wanted it to end. All this talk of gods, of myths; all the pain he endured, and all the pain he caused—he didn’t want any part of it anymore. He shut his eyes. Thanatos’ and Apollo’s voices sounded distant. 

He blinked, and saw fog. Dead, rotted trees surrounded him. He looked down at his hands, which shimmered blue. 

“Father…”

He turned, saw a young man with green eyes. “It didn’t work?” The boy looked scared, overwhelmed, even. 

“What didn’t work?”

“Thanatos said he—you weren’t supposed to die!” 

“Everyone dies, Zagreus.”

“Not today, uncle,” Apollo said, and Logan could feel the god’s blazing hand clenching around his heart. 

“Let me go,” Logan groaned. 

“He dies, and it’s all over for us.”

“I’m well aware of the stakes, Death. Maybe you should’ve been keeping a closer eye on him.”

“Tch. Careful, Apollo, or I’ll be paying your brother a visit next, and I doubt that the Prince will be tolerant or merciful towards him, considering his actions.”

Logan wanted to scream. The sun god’s hot fingers were burning him, incinerating his insides, and the banks of the Styx called to him. He had no obols for the journey; he would remain a lost soul there, forever wandering, until he was driven completely mad. It would be a fitting end. He wanted it. “Please just let me die,” he ground out. He kept seeing Stella in the snow, crying over his lifeless shell, and he hated himself. “Mercy.”

“Tempting offer, uncle, truly—but I am not known for showing mercy. Now drink this.”

The searing liquid poured down his throat, and he coughed and choked, struggling to breathe with Apollo’s fingers still inside his chest. His entire body burned as if he’d been placed in an oven. 

“I think you gave him too much.”

“He wasn’t going to survive without it.”

“Those holes in his head...”

“Patience, patience, I’ll get to them—”

Logan sat up suddenly, startling both gods with his movement. His head was swimming. He felt energy...a dark, intoxicating sense of power at the edges of his fingertips. Shadows called to him. Their darkness promised to cool the fire on skin, in his body. 

“My lord…” Thanatos said, his voice rising like he was asking a question, but uncertain as to whether or not he wanted to ask it. 

“What’s this power?” Logan asked, opening his palms. Black smoke poured from his hands, its gloom sucking in all semblance of light, and Apollo backed away. “Okay,” Apollo said, pulling Thanatos back by the elbow. “Maybe I _did_ give him too much.”

Inside, Logan burned: he felt rage, rage that had built upon bit by bit, death after death, until it was a monstrous storm inside that threatened to consume him. Every short, miserable human life he lived; every moment he came close to reuniting with his wife, to seeing his son, dashed. He wanted to destroy everything: to raze the Earth to the ground and walk upon its burned foundations, crushing anyone underfoot who dared to stand in his way. That would be justice.

  
  
“Seems like he’s back,” Apollo said, nervous. “Calling upon the powers of darkness and all.”

“No,” Thanatos countered. “He’s overheating on Ambrosia.”

“He’s alive, isn’t he? You Chthonic gods can work out the rest amongst yourselves.”

“Nephew,” Hades said, his voice cold and menacing. The god stopped moving. “You stay.” 

Apollo gulped. “Yes, uncle, of course.” Darkness enveloped him, cooled his burning skin, but the rage did not subside. He felt the solid weight of Thanatos’ hand on his shoulder. “My lord, you need to stop.”

“I cannot.” 

“Your soul is still too shattered. You will destroy yourself, and we will not be able to help you—”

“I am...so _angry_.” He saw Horatio—Cronus—full and corporeal, outside of his prison in Tartarus, human and malicious, driven to destroy his children each and every time. “This rage—it’s eating me alive.”

“My lord—”

Hades felt himself split across space, and across time. He saw the lightly shimmering, golden soul of Hermes—Henry Olsen—and felt his control slipping. In the shadows of Henry’s apartment, he appeared, though the corruption of this lifetime took hold once again and guided his actions. He touched his nephew’s cheek, fighting with the urge to rip him apart, so that his human soul would wander the Underworld blind, deaf, and dumb. 

He eventually found Demeter, who was sitting in her office, and who did not bother to turn around to his presence. 

“Seems the boy wasn’t lying,” she said, looking out her massive window into the night. The storm outside was violent: snow flurries blanketed the streets, and the wind pushed the building to and fro. 

“Have you enjoyed all this?” he asked, sneering, not bothering to hide his disgust. 

“If you’re asking whether I’ve enjoyed all the times I’ve spent raising my daughter, lifetime after lifetime, then yes. And I’ve enjoyed seeing you suffer. Although I did not anticipate that Apollo would ally himself to you this go around.” She turned to face him, beautiful and terrible. “Welcome, Hades.”

“Why have you done this?”

She laughed, cold as the ice she commanded. “I’ve not done anything, little brother. All this suffering is your doing.”

“Mine?”

She stood, walking up to him. She adjusted his tie, wiped the ichor that was oozing down his forehead. “Quite an accurate shot, isn’t he? Especially for a human. Perhaps Apollo saw fit to bless him; a gift for his slumbering brother.”

“Demeter…” 

“You smell like ash and death, you know.” She moved away from him, sliding to her wine cabinet. “I thought you would have at least cleaned up a bit before arriving to pull rank on me. You have always been...fastidious.” She uncorked a fresh bottle, poured a glass, and offered it to him. He took it. 

“I’ve not been myself.”

She sipped her wine, turned to face the window once more. “As you say. Neither have I.” A moment passed between them. “Did you manage to meet your son?”

The rage on his skin burned; he shut his eyes. “Yes.”

“I’ve heard tell that he’s a good man.”

“He’s just a boy.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Still?”

He had no answer for her. Every cell in his body called for violence. He did not move. The clock in the room marked each passing second. “I suppose that makes sense,” she said, still gazing out the window. “Given what’s transpired.”

“What has transpired?” he asked. He drank some of his wine, hoping it would help to settle the anger and fury burning inside him. It did not. 

“You really don’t know, do you, little brother?” She looked at him, stunned. 

“I would not be asking if I did...sister.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What do you remember of the Gigantomachy?” 

A spear going through his back; blood and ichor on the ground. “Death.”

“Death indeed,” Demeter said. The edges of her mouth turned up. “Your death as well as our brothers' and Hestia's.” Her eyes flashed then, with a rage to match his own. “And my daughter's.”

“What can bring about the death of a god?”

“Many things. Tempting Fate. A duel for power amongst our kind. Lack of worship. We all struggle with this now.”

“That was not the problem then.”

“No, it was not. No— _you_ were the problem. You and your son, who was born of a union that should have never occurred—”

“She chose to eat the seeds, Demeter. She chose _me_.” Darkness erupted from him, and Demeter smiled. His body burned. 

“After you seduced her with your wealth and sweet words,” she hissed, “as you’re doing now. But it no longer matters. The Fates killed the boy, stifling his life in my daughter’s womb.”

Green eyes. His mother’s smile. Zagreus. _Alive_. Hades’ rage quieted, but only just. “I remember.”

“That should’ve stopped you, but it didn’t. And we were losing our war against the giants. The lands turned barren; our worshippers died. The end of our pantheon was fast approaching. You made a pact with the Fates to give your son life; you convinced the others to join you so that we would win the war. You died in that final battle; Persephone, not long after. The others? Old age, a stray arrow—human deaths. You live; you die; you live again, endlessly, as humans, while your godly bodies remain in slumber. And thus it has been for two thousand years.” 

He was shaking. The center of his chest boiled, and the pain radiated to the rest of his body. “And Father?” 

Her hard expression softened, almost imperceptibly, but he saw it. “A measure of the pact.”

He could picture it clearly. The laughter of the three sisters as they goaded him. His life for his son’s would not be enough. Zagreus was never supposed to exist, you see; thus, certain extremes would need to be taken, were he to...revive. Your life for your son’s—your family’s lives, as well. It would be easy, they argued. You are a cunning man, first-born Son of Cronus. Let those half-truths and outright lies fall from your lips when they suit you the most. For your son. 

His jaw clenched painfully at the memory. He had always been too clever for his own good.

_I propose a pact with the Fates_ , he had said. _It will win you the war._ Zeus hung onto his every word; Poseidon needed more convincing. But in the end, it worked: the Olympians would see this war end. Very few did not join his destructive cause.

The effect on his body was almost immediate, though the others did not realize their doom until much later. His wife was the first to notice, when she could muster the strength to leave her chambers. She could sense he had done something... _wrong_ , and would not touch him. _You look ill,_ she had told him. One of the last things she ever said to him. And he did look ill; his strength had diminished greatly, seeping out of his body every day, so that when he fought in that last battle with the giants, a single mistake was all it took to kill him. He reached out for her, terrified of the darkness that pulled at him, because a god was not supposed to die, and he watched the fear and confusion in her eyes turn into hurt and anger. 

“I have done this.” He crushed the wine glass in his hands; ichor and wine mixed together, dripping down to the wooden floor of her office.

“Yes, Hades.” They locked eyes, and were he just a man, he would fear her. But he was no longer just a man. “You are the reason my daughter dies, and I must grieve her.”

“She was not part of the pact—”

“No,” Demeter shook her head, her green eyes burning with hate. “But she is married in the old way to you, bound to you. Thus she dies when you do...or shortly thereafter.” 

He grabbed her shoulders, shook her violently. “You would seek to have me _murdered_ , knowing this?” he shouted. 

She spat at him, and his eyes twitched. “She lives; she dies; she lives again.”

“Not this time.”

She pushed him off her, throwing him across the room with little more than a light tap. The back of his head hit the glass of the window, cracking it, and sparks flew in front of his eyes. “Fool,” she seethed, wiping herself off where he had touched her. “There is still so much you fail to understand.”

“Enlighten me, then, Demeter.” His words were slurred. Whatever strength the Ambrosia had given him was fading: the burning on his skin and in his body was beginning to subside, and he began to feel faint. 

“You’re bleeding red again. Do you feel the call to your cold halls? Best not keep them waiting.”

With the strength he had left, he launched himself at her, knocking her down and pinning her under his great weight. She laughed, absolutely fearless. His hands were around her neck; nausea coursed through him. “You do not own your life, or the life of your son.”

“What does that mean?” He shook her. She was laughing. He wanted to kill her. “Demeter, what does that mean?” He was dizzy; the strength in his hands was waning. The power he felt at his fingertips, gone. 

“Until next we meet...Mr. Black.” 

“Demeter!” He was back in the alleyway with Thanatos and Apollo. On his hands and knees, holding nothing, shaking. His body felt clammy and feverish in the cold of the snow. He retched, and the sick was red blood. 

“Have fun, my lord?” Thanatos was smacking him lightly on the back. “That’s right, get it all out of your system, eh. I wish you hadn’t pulled that stunt. Your body isn’t ready.”

Logan felt small. He felt...human. Death was touching him, and he shuddered. His chest hurt; his head felt so swollen it could pop; his leg throbbed. The wind whipped through the alleyway, sharp as icicles, and he shivered, cold. He was human. 

He rolled away from Thanatos, pressing his back against the dirty brick of the alley’s wall. The two gods stared at him. His heart beat fast—his heart was beating again! His fingers dug into the snow, curling them at the pain of each pump of blood in his body. “Okay,” he said, gasping, “okay, I believe you.” He shut his eyes, shielding them from the bitter cold. “I believe you.”

  
  
  
  



	16. Certain Points of View

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which hades trolls, and we see him from the point of view of others. 
> 
> TW for johnny being racist, mentions of cancer and death of a loved one

Johnny “John-John” Moltisanti rapped his fingers against the granite island of his Boss’ kitchen. The snow outside was getting heavier and heavier, and the Boss still hadn’t texted him, requesting that the boys leave his penthouse so that he could spend some alone time with his girl. That lack of communication, coupled with the Boss’ erratic behavior lately made Johnny...nervous. 

The lights in the penthouse flickered, and Johnny watched the boys look up from their card game, annoyed. Sounds of the evening news played in the background. 

Nikolai sat up, removing his dirty feet from the Boss’ industrial coffee table. “Eh John-John, is Boss’ girl?” 

“What are you talking about, Russki?”

“On television. Also,” Nikolai narrowed his eyes, “You know I am Serbian. Misha is Russki.” Just as well; Johnny always had to clean up Nikolai’s messes before the Boss arrived, or else the Boss would give him an earful about his once immaculately-clean home being dirty. _That_ was never a fun time. Yeah: a little gentle ribbing was less than what Nikolai deserved. 

Still, Johnny looked at the tv, his discomfort growing as the anchor described a scene of blood, and an injured Stella Porter. “Is lots of blood, no?”

Johnny squinted at the pool of red staining the ground behind the reporter. Yeah, it was definitely lots of blood. The amount you would see when a guy got whacked. He pursed his lips, checked his cell phone. Still nothing from the Boss. 

Panic swept through him. Stella Porter, daughter of the DA, was on her way to the hospital, after being found in a pool of blood that wasn’t her own. No details on who made the call to EMS, and witnesses definitely heard gunshots, though they saw nothing. And still no word from the Boss. Did somebody whack him? Who would have the brass balls do try and do that?

Johnny ran through a list of possible assassins in his mind. Could’ve been a Commission hit. That was far-fetched, but possible: the heat in the city was turning up, and the last thing the Five Families of New York needed was the FBI blowing up their dealings in Empire City. Johnny knew they tolerated the Boss, but they never liked him: the guy was only half-Italian, on his crazyass father’s side, and probably would’ve never been made in the first place, were it not for the fact that he was in the right place, at the right time, to save the Old Man. 

Add to that, the fact he was relatively young for a captain, and then especially young for a boss, and his penchant for hiring lots of...non-Italians—Johnny scowled—the Boss had the reputation for being a maverick upstart. So, a Commission hit? Possible. Johnny nodded to himself, thinking, _shit_. 

“Looks like someone got whacked,” said Tommaso, who was a new member of Johnny’s own crew. Young, bloodthirsty, Italian: just how Johnny liked his soldiers. “The Boss was going on a date with her tonight, wasn’t he? You don’t think—”

“Don’t say another word,” Johnny ordered. At the moment, he was the guy in charge. He liked the rush of power—he rarely got to flex it. 

“Time now,” Bobo said, and Johnny had to bite his lip in order to keep from jumping out of his seat at the sound of the guy’s voice. Johnny’s eyes darted to the big man, who was somehow even larger than the Boss, and who hardly ever spoke. A one-eyed ogre if he ever saw one. “What’s up, Bobo?” Johnny asked, trying in vain to hide his obvious distaste for the Boss’ favorite bodyguard.

“Door,” Bobo said, pointing to the elegant entrance of the penthouse. 

“Eh?” He heard the jostling of the door before he saw it. Something wasn’t right. Reflexively, Johnny unholstered his glock, pointed it at the door, and the rest of the crew followed suit. 

Once more Johnny had to bite his lip to keep from firing as his Boss walked in, a burning cigarette between the man’s lips. The cigarette wasn’t surprising, but the fact that his Boss was soaked in blood from head to toe? That definitely was, ‘coz the Boss had had his share of killing, and these days wasn’t usually quick to clip a guy, and especially not with his own hands. Though, there _had_ been a few occasions…Johnny sucked in a breath, holstered his weapon.

The Boss walked right up to him, picked up his glass of untouched whiskey, and drank it down in one go. This close, Johnny could see how dark the stain of red was on his Boss’ suit, and he started to worry his lip even more as it became apparent to him that the Boss was covered in his own blood, and not someone else’s. Johnny swallowed. There was no way that could be possible. The stain was right in the middle of his chest! And yet...he gulped again, a hard lump in his throat threatening to choke him. “Boss?”

The Boss’s cold, wintry eyes flicked to Johnny for half a second, before returning to observe the news about his girl on the television. He poured another shot of whiskey for himself, not taking his flinty eyes off the screen.

“Empire General,” Bobo said, completely unprompted. The Boss nodded, drank down another glass of whiskey in one go, and walked into his bedroom without saying a word. 

The crew looked at Johnny, each and every one of them slack-jawed. They continued to stare at each other, hearing their Boss rustle around in his bedroom, followed by the unmistakable sound of a shower jet turning on. “Lots of blood,” Nikolai said after a moment. They all nodded. 

“Only ever seen a guy covered in that much red when he’s been whacked—”

“Shut up, Tommy. And don’t be talking about how much blood a guy leaves after he’s whacked, like you popped your cherry and know something. Pfft.” 

“You know it’s true!” Tommaso argued. 

“Look like walking corpse,” Misha piped up, in his annoying, broken English, and Nikolai nodded in agreement. “Veles,” the Serbian said. The two Slavs chatted to each other in what Johnny thought was probably Russian, but he couldn’t be sure. He picked out what sounded like names, Veles and Morozko, and the two sounded like they were starting to argue. 

“Neither,” Bobo said, and the Slavs looked at the big ogre in unison. “He is Hades. But they are kin.”

Johnny chuckled nervously. “Bobo, I think that’s the longest sentence your dumbass has ever said. Didn’t realize you had two brain cells to rub together and were capable of actual conversation.” Nobody laughed. The Slavs shook their heads. 

“Brothers,” said Misha. 

Nikolai scratched his beard. “Or maybe cousins.” 

Bobo nodded. “Of a kind.”

“Eh?” Johnny asked. He looked at Tommaso for answers, but the kid looked just as confused as he felt. “Stupid,” Bobo said, nodding towards him, and the two Slavs laughed.

Whatever was happening here, Johnny didn’t understand any of it. “Yeah, well, fuck you guys too, then,” he muttered, making to stand and pouring himself another shot glass of whiskey. 

Bobo cleared his throat. “Finished,” he said, and involuntarily Johnny gulped, turning his head towards his Boss’ bedroom. The man stepped out in a new suit, walking with no limp, and with a look of determination and fury in his eyes that made Johnny’s blood run cold. “Boss?”

He noticed the two Slavs lowering their heads at his entrance, like they were bowing; Bobo was bending his enormous body completely at the waist. Nervously, Tommaso followed their example, but Johnny stood there frozen, unsure of what to do. “My lord,” Bobo said. _The fuck?_ Johnny thought. Johnny’s nervous eyes darted back to his Boss, who nodded curtly in acknowledgement of his crew’s solemn deference while adjusting his tie.

“Boss?” Johnny asked again, instantly wishing that he hadn’t, because the Boss’ laser-focused attention was on him now, and locking eyes with the man made Johnny feel like he couldn’t fucking breathe. The Boss strode up to him, graceful and predatory, and Johnny’s throat went dry. Once more, he took the glass of whiskey that Johnny had poured for himself and drank it in one go. Johnny looked away; he dared not meet the Boss’ eyes. The Boss had always been a mean son of a bitch, but something about him had changed, and Johnny felt like he was on the verge of pissing himself from fear. 

Stretching his neck, the Boss moved towards the threshold of his penthouse, and said: “Johnny.”

Johnny shivered. From the corner of his eye, Johnny could see that the Boss had his back towards him, and he breathed a quick sigh of relief. “Yeah, Boss?”

“Make sure this place is spotless before I return.” 

“Of course, Bo—” 

The man walked out and shut the door before Johnny could finish his sentence. 

\---

Elena Castellanos eyed the clock on her computer screen: 7:50pm. Just ten more minutes before she could clock out and watch the latest episode of _The Bachelor_. She had avoided watching the show for most of her adult life, but now she was divorced and semi-retired, and “trash tv,” as her daughter called it, was more entertaining than it had any right to be. 

“Whew, Twitter is really popping off about the DA’s kid being here.” That was Sam, her technology-savvy coworker. The lights flickered for a moment, and Elena threw an uneasy look towards the hospital’s entrance. “I’m more concerned about driving back home in this storm, to be honest,” she said. “What’s the word on that?”

“Lots of doomsdayers. End is nigh bullcrap. You’d think these people had never experienced a nor’easter before.”

Elena stared at the clock again: 7:52. She sighed. “Bomb cyclone of the century. It came out of nowhere.” She sniffed, smelling smoke. The sliding glass doors of the hospital opened and a man walked in with a cigarette in his mouth, casual and cool, like the biggest storm of the year wasn’t knocking at their doorstep. 

He stood in front of the reception desk. “I’m looking for my wife’s room.” His voice was rich and deep, conjuring up images of dark caverns with veins of gold. “Stella Porter.”

“Visiting hours end in eight minutes, sir,” Elena said, staring at the strange man in front of her. “And…” she cocked her head to the side, taking in his odd appearance. Certainly, he looked wealthy: his suit was well-tailored, and the rings on his fingers—a platinum wedding band, inlaid with some kind of inscription, and a...sigil?—were well-made. She was pretty sure that his cufflinks were made out of diamonds, too. 

“And?” He had just questioned her in Greek. Elena swallowed. She hadn’t heard anyone speak Greek since her childhood. “You can’t smoke in here,” she responded in kind. 

“Ah, I see,” he said, his words becoming more difficult to understand, sounding not only formal but...ancient. “My apologies,” he continued, putting the butt of the cigarette out on his tongue. He was frightening. Again, she observed the inscription on his wedding band, recognizing the letters as ancient symbols. Elena’s skin started to tingle. She did not look into his eyes; instinct told her not to. 

“Hey, buddy,” Sam said, completely oblivious to the danger of the man standing in front of them. “Visiting hours are over.”

“Are you afraid?” His voice wrapped around her, a blanket of smoke and darkness, and she shuddered. 

“Yes.” 

He hummed, sounding pleased. “Do you know who I am?”

A myth. A story, told to her by her parents, and then told to her in school. A legend—an ancient, dour king. Elena kept her eyes glued to his chest and the ringed hand he had placed on the reception desk. “Yes.”

“Sir, I’m calling security if you don’t leave.” Elena could already hear Sam dialing. She saw a flash of movement from him, probably a wave of his hand, and heard the electric hum of a dead dial tone.

“Fuck this,” Sam said, slamming the useless headset down. “Security! Security!”

“Elena,” he said, ignoring the calls from two approaching security officers. He tapped his fingers in a one-two rhythm atop the desk. “Tell me what my wife’s room number is.” 

The officers were behind him now, taser guns out. “Elenaaaa,” he repeated, elongating her name with what sounded vaguely like mirth. “I am waiting.”

“Sir, if you do not leave, we will be forced to taze you. You have five seconds to comply. One, two—”

He tapped his index finger against the desk, and at the moment of contact, the two men collapsed behind him. Elena’s heart raced; she could hear their cries of madness-induced agony as they writhed on the ground, just as clearly as she could see Sam cowering behind the desk and crossing herself. “I will not ask again.”

Elena swallowed. She wasn’t trying to antagonize the death god; she was just frozen with fear. “Forgive me, Rich One,” she sputtered, not daring to utter his name. She was trying, couldn’t he see? Her fingers shook.

A colder presence joined him, and Elena felt herself struggling to keep her composure. “Death approaches,” he said. “Do not keep me waiting any longer, Elena Castellanos.”

Another moment passed. Coldness gripped her, and she gasped. “She can see me?”

“No, my friend.” Against her better judgement, she looked up at his face, and saw that he was smiling. Her fear amused him; she felt sick. She did not look into his eyes. “But she can certainly hear and feel you—is that not right, Elena?”

“Yes, Rich One.” Elena was trembling. Distantly, she could hear Sam crying. She gazed at her clock: 7:55. How had only three minutes passed? She typed the name, ‘Stella Porter,’ into the hospital registry, and realized with a new, potent wave of fear who the woman must be, and found her voice cracking when she told him the room number. 

“Thank you kindly,” he said, switching back to English. She nodded stiffly. He left four coins on the desk, and her stomach dropped when she realized what they were for. “Don’t forget,” he said, barking a deep and menacing laugh that made her want to curl into a ball and hide. She looked at the clock again: 7:57. She tore her eyes from his back as he walked to the elevator and stepped in, choosing instead to look again at the snowstorm that raged outside. She copied Sam’s gesture and crossed herself, though she knew it would do nothing. 

“Elena,” Sam cried, shivering. “Who was he?”

Elena shuddered, moving to hold her coworker. The security officers were still groaning, and Elena did not know what to do for them—or if she _could_ do anything for them. She wrapped her arms around Sam, and the two women cradled each other. “King of the Dead,” Elena said. “And he brings Death with him.”

\---

Dr. Jennifer Murphy kissed her mother goodnight, and worried. The woman had taken a spill in the shower earlier that day, breaking her hip in the process. Dr. Murphy worried because her mother was in her eighties, and hip fractures were especially difficult for such elderly patients. Her mother was in good hands, though; Dr. Murphy’s husband was Empire General’s best orthopedic surgeon, and Dr. Murphy knew he had taken good care of her mother’s injury. Still, anxiety plagued her: during the surgery on her mother, her husband had discovered a highly aggressive orthopedic cancer. The initial news of this diagnosis was devastating, and after speaking with the oncologist, Dr. Murphy had determined that the prognosis for her mother was grim. Six months, at best—the most of which her mother would spend in pain and recovery from surgery. 

So, ever the dutiful daughter, Dr. Murphy had stayed late visiting and speaking with her mom, telling her that she loved her, until finally the nurse came in to inform them that visiting hours would soon be over. Dr. Murphy gathered up her purse, kissed her sweet mother on the cheek, and only slightly startled when the lights went out. There was commotion outside her mother’s room: voices of panicked doctors asking about the back-up generators, and why they weren’t already powering the building. She paused in the doorway, torn between staying with her mother and trying to help find a solution. 

“Dr. Murphy.” That voice was familiar...though it was not one she would ever expect to hear outside of her job. She faced him, turning on the flashlight function of her phone. “Mr. Black?” 

Amusement tugged at his lips, like she had said a joke. When she had met him for the first time, she found him fascinating: a gangster suffering from complete hallucinations, and the son of Horatio Astarita, who was infamous enough on his own—well, that was the kind of delicious case she had dreamed about treating since medical school. At the time, she did not fear him. She could not say the same thing now. 

“In the flesh.”

“What are you doing here?” she stammered. The lights turned back on, though that did not bring her any comfort, as they were the only two people left in the hallway. She got the distinct and disturbing feeling that he was toying with her, somehow, and she stepped into the doorway of her mother’s room, as if to defend her. 

“Retrieving my wife, who happens to be in that room behind you, good doctor.” 

“Your wife?” Dr. Murphy let herself sneak a quick glance into the room, spying on her mother’s young roommate, just returned from surgery. Dark skin, auburn curls—Cassandra Porter’s daughter! She put the pieces together, feeling her resolve to stand in the doorway grow as she realized that the woman he’d been thinking of as his Persephone was Stella Porter. “Mr. Black, you are in the middle of a hallucination. That’s not your wife; you’re not even married.”

His smile grew wider, and Dr. Murphy only grew more afraid because she knew that he was, above all, a killer like his father; he wouldn’t hesitate to hurt her if she continued to stand in his way. “Dr. Murphy, you have been kind to me, and I would like to repay that kindness when I am able. But—” he stepped closer now, menacing, “you are correct in your assessment of me. Move, or I will make you move.”

She laughed, but it was the kind of delirious laugh one makes when one has no other recourse. “What exactly do you think is going to happen here, Logan? You can’t just...you can’t just kidnap this girl out of her hospital bed!” 

“Dr. Murphy,” he said, waving his hand to the left; with a sudden, incredible impact, Dr. Jennifer Murphy felt herself snatched from the doorway and pressed into the wall, the wind knocked out of her completely. She wheezed, feeling a dense pressure on her chest. He stood in front of her, gently replacing the glasses that had fallen from her face. “I think you will find that I can.”

If she could nod, she would; if she could suck in enough air, she would scream. But she could do neither of these things. The lights of the hospital went out again, and she stayed pinned against the wall of the hallway, struggling to take a proper breath, and completely unable to speak. _Don’t hurt my mother_ , she wanted to say. _Please, just spare her._ And then, more desperate: _Just a few more years_. _Please...Hades._ Dr. Murphy shut her eyes and began to pray to him, begging that he wouldn’t touch her mother, not yet. She was not sure how many minutes she spent there, pinned against the wall by an invisible, oppressive force, but when she saw him emerge from the room, he had an unconscious Stella Porter in his arms.

With a flick of his wrist, Dr. Murphy fell forward, released from her prison against the wall, and she would have collapsed completely had he not caught her. His right hand was on her shoulder, supporting her weight; the other held his bride, as if the woman were weightless, and she marveled at his strength. “I’ve not been prayed to in many years, Dr. Murphy. Indeed, very few would even dare to invoke my name.” His eyes were hard when he looked at her, and even harder under the fluorescent lights of the hospital, which had flickered back to life. She backed away from him, trembling. 

She didn’t know what to say. Had she been rude? This entire experience contradicted everything she believed about the world—about religion, about science—and maybe, maybe, she was the one hallucinating all along. That would be the only credible explanation. And yet—”I’m sorry,” she stammered, “I didn’t know how to—what else to say—”

His ruthless expression softened, and he readjusted her glasses with an easy smile. The contact surprised her; she held in a skittish peel of laughter that threatened to bubble out. “Your mother has a few years yet, and they will not be spent in misery. Save your prayers for when you need them, and I will do my best to...indulge your request. Take care, doctor.”

And with that, he walked away from her, a slumbering Stella Porter in his arms. “Jennie, Jennie is that you?”

Dr. Murphy blinked, realizing that she had been crying. “Yes, Ma.” She went into her mother’s room, sat down by her, and held her hand. She would stay with her mother tonight, she decided. “Jennie, did you see those two handsome men?”

Dr. Murphy swallowed hard. “There was only one man, Ma.”

Her mother laughed, squeezing her hand with affection. “No, no, there were two. The younger one said he’d be back to visit me in a few years. Can you believe that? Said he couldn’t wait to see me when I reached one hundred. I said, sonny, I don’t think I’ll make it there, but if I get to see your handsome face again, I’ll try, ha ha ha!” 

Dr. Murphy laughed, tears in her eyes. One hundred. Fifteen more years. She kissed her mother on the cheek and closed her eyes, silently thanking her patient. Fifteen more years. He had given her that, and that would be enough.


	17. Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which new characters come into the fray, and h and p have some rough reunion sex. no, seriously. tw for hair-pulling, biting, some knife play, and primal sub/dom dynamics. immah just say my headcannon for them is that they're both switches, and leave it at that. enjoy.

Odin sat at the bar, sipping on his favorite brand of ale. He watched as the major news network anchors discussed the recent nor’easter that had sprung up over Massachusetts, seemingly out of nowhere. 

“Looks like a bad storm,” the bartender said, cleaning a glass. 

Odin scratched his beard, suspicious of the storm’s origin. Certainly, the work of an irate kinsman—but who? And to be so blatant, especially when tensions with the New Gods were running so high! It was capricious and arrogant, to think that they could make such a display without Media latching onto it, and leading the vicious god right to them. _Foolish_ , he thought. “Indeed, quite a bad storm.” 

“Need me to close out your tab?” Odin nodded; he would not be drinking more tonight. His cell phone rang and, sensing who was calling, he answered. “Morozko.”

“Hail, Odin. Have you seen the news?”

“I thought perhaps you might have had something to do with it, my frosty friend.” 

Dark laughter on the other line. “I prefer to keep to my own lands, thank you.”

Odin sipped on his ale. “As do we all. Though time has changed us, all the same.”

A pause. And then: “Whom do you suspect now?”

Odin thought, looking at the great eye of the storm through his familiars, Huginn and Muninn. The power of the storm was great and old—very, very old, older than even himself—and engendered by a righteous fury. Yet there was sadness there, too: a deep sense of melancholy that Odin could only understand as grief. He reflected on the last time he had felt such a wild force, and could not recall one. A long, long while, it seemed.

  
Very few of his kin remained that were so ancient, and not yet in slumber—and fewer still who would recklessly spotlight their presence in such a way. He frowned, thinking. “An Elder God, like ourselves.”

“I sensed as much.”

But who? Huginn and Muninn pushed further into the swirling clouds of the storm, and there, he saw her. His frown grew deeper. “Oh, dear.”

“How now, Odin! That does not sound good…”

“Aye, it is not,” Odin sighed, taking one last sip of his ale. He returned his gaze to the television, and the swirling storm that took up its screen. “Seems like good Lady Demeter is quite angry.”

Odin could hear Morozko clearing his throat on the other end of the line. “I _had_ thought it strange to hear my name, invoked with power, there.”

Odin sighed once more, leaning back in his stool. “I can only guess as to why.”

“Seems like one of our Greek cousins is no longer asleep. You can also see why I prefer to stay within my own lands.”

Odin handed the bartender his tip. “Would that we could all have the luxury, my friend.” 

Morozko chuckled, the sound as cold as the depths of winter. “What will you do now?”

Odin stepped outside into the brisk fall breeze. He put on his hat and wrapped his scarf around his neck. “Pay our cousin a visit,” he said, clicking off the line. He whistled an old Germanic tune as he disappeared into the night. 

\---

Someone was holding her. Stella tried opening her eyes, but they felt so heavy. What happened? She turned her head, groaning into what felt like a man’s chest. She managed to get her eyes open, for just the briefest of moments, and looked up at him in the darkness. His face was a blur. “Who…?” she slurred, reaching up to touch his cheek. He held her wrist; she could feel his lips kiss her palm. 

“Rest,” she heard him say. “I am not going anywhere.” 

Her eyes shut, the call of sleep too potent to ignore, and she pressed her body closer to his as a fierce and sudden cold scalded her flesh. She felt his arms grow tighter around her.

In her dream, she ran from a man in black armor. He raced after her in an imposing golden chariot, wreathed in dark flames. He was gaining on her; soon, he would catch her. His chilling laughter curled around her, its violent mirth only growing louder as she tripped on a branch and lost her footing. The wind next to her shifted; she was nearly in his embrace. She kept running.

His great hand wrapped around her waist, powerful and unyielding. She did not scream, even as he crushed her back to him; she would not give him the satisfaction. 

“I have you now, sweet goddess,” he whispered. His hand was splayed against her belly, feverishly warm and possessive. He kissed her neck, and she sighed. “You could not keep me away from you forever.” She could hear the smug smile in his voice. 

“Do you really mean to take me like such a brute?” she exhaled, grabbing his hand and moving it lower, pressing herself back against his groin. “Honestly, Hades, for a king,” she continued, enjoying the sound of his rough groan in her ear, “you can be so...uncivilized.” He barked a discordant laugh, the sound coming from deep within his chest, sharp as clashing bronze. The earth split before her eyes: a rich and menacing cavern, daring her to enter its depths, pulling her forward. 

“Would you have me any other way?” His hand was beneath her chiton now, his fingers leisurely exploring the wetness of her vulva, back and forth, back and forth, in a gentle dance. He drew lazy circles around her swollen sex, humming with delight at the wetness he found there. She felt his other hand clamp around her neck, softly squeezing, the horses’ leather reigns lightly kissing her skin—she gasped. “I do not think you would.” 

She felt the heat of his arousal pressing insistently through the cloth and leather of his pteruges skirt, unrelenting as he rocked himself against her now-bare ass. “My mother will cause a row over this,” she warned, shutting her eyes as one of his fingers pushed inside her. The sensation was new and strange—different from her own hand, and the teasing kisses he would often give her there—but welcome. He slid in a second finger, pushing her cunt apart, and she hissed in pain, feeling very much like a blooming flower whose petals were being pried open too early. He made a sound, one of irritation, perhaps, and softened the pressure of his touch. “Losing our courage, are we, little goddess?” 

No. She refused to be cowed or bullied by him. In answer, she rocked her cunt onto his hand, feeling sparks of sharp pleasure overtake the pain. “Never.”

“Hmm,” he rumbled, unmistakably smug and pleased with himself. He curled his fingers, tittering darkly as she shivered from the sensation. “I will remember this spot,” he said, kissing the shell of her ear. She could feel the self-satisfied smile pulling across his lips, and, trying to break his arrogant sense of control, she quipped: “My mother will raze the World Above to smoke and ash in search of me.” His fingers stopped moving, though his other hand twisted, like a snake, tightly into her hair. She waited. The burning magma-light of the cavern was beginning to dissipate. She could feel her heart drumming. Perhaps it had not been so wise to goad him— 

Suddenly and violently, he shoved her forward, bending her body at the waist. The hand in her hair twisted deeply around her locks and tugged back harshly, forcing her to crane her neck towards him. Hot tears formed at the edges of her eyes, but she would not shed them. “Aye, and she would be a poor mother if she did not,” he whispered, his breath hot and ragged on her neck, “given what I am about to do to you.” His voice was rough, and she could tell he was on the edge of losing his control. It would take just a little push.

“Oh?” Her voice, by contrast, was light and innocent; teasing. “And what exactly is that?” 

“I am going to take your life,” he answered, his grip in her hair only growing tighter. She could no longer see the way: all light was gone, consumed by the shadows of Erebus. “I will make you _mine_.” He nibbled on her earlobe, causing her to shiver. 

“I do not—” she huffed out, trembling at his touch, “appreciate the idea of being possessed like an object.” 

His laughter wrapped around her, an embrace of smoke and ash. “Yet you will be my equal, in all things: hold the command of my army, the adoration and fear of my subjects—”

“And you?” she asked, moaning against the strain of his rigid, unyielding grip. 

“And I,” he said, kissing her neck, “will offer you the world.” He held his free hand out in front of her, and in the darkness of Erebus, she could see the faint glow of a pomegranate sitting in his palm. “What is it you want, little goddess?” The fruit split open, revealing its ripe, blood-red seeds. She swallowed. “Riches? Power? My body?” He rocked against her, and her eyes fluttered shut at the press of his arousal on her swollen cunt. “All this, I will offer to you: a chance to live... _deliciously_ , with me. You need only eat the seeds." The seeds sparkled in front of her, their red juice illuminating and coating his hand. "What say you, my sweet flower?” _Queen of a realm_ , she thought. Excitement gripped her. _The final realm_. She reached out her hand, pulling six luscious seeds from his palm. Yes. She would take it.

“I want…”

“Tell me.”

“I want... _everything!_ ” she shouted, panting. She could feel his hot lips curl into a smile against her skin. One by one, she pressed the seeds into her mouth, and he yanked her back so that her torso was flush against his. He twisted her neck to face him, and she felt his hot lips kiss her, moaning deeply as his searing tongue entered her mouth, playing with the seeds he found there, forcing her to swallow them. Her fate was now sealed. “So it shall be yours,” he said, releasing her. His ragged breath tickled her nose. She wanted him, here and now, in the presence of shadows and darkness. Only then would her transformation be complete. 

“Then claim me,” she huffed, grinding her ass against his still-clothed cock, hoping that his resolve would finally— _finally_ —snap. He snarled like a beast in response, and his right hand tore the rest of her chiton off with savage ferocity. He kicked her legs open roughly. “As my queen commands,” he ground out. 

“Oh, Hades,” she giggled, relishing the power and control she held over him, “so _forcef—_ ” she stopped speaking: the word died on her tongue, turning into a moan as she felt his cock push inside of her, splitting her apart and filling her. _Yes_ , she thought. She exhaled a shaky breath. He was inside her now, and she could feel his cock throbbing with need, seeking the friction of her body. On instinct, she rocked her hips against him, rolling them slowly, adjusting herself to the strange feeling of invasion and discomfort his body inside her had created. He hissed in response, a high pitched keen she had not thought him capable of making, but he did not move inside her, not yet. She repeated the movement, gasping in surprise at the new pleasure she discovered; she felt his cock twitch and grow even harder within her. 

“ _Wanton girl_ ,” he growled. His strong grip was in her hair again, and he pulled on it savagely, exposing her neck to him. “Only you would be so reckless to provoke me.” She shut her eyes as he moved out of her slowly and then pressed back in, the strange sensation of his cock sliding inside of her, once again, bizarre and overwhelming. She said his name and he bit the hollow of her neck, making her gasp. His free hand snaked down and fondled her breasts, and a wave of pleasure tore through her. She pushed her hips back against him, earning a stifled curse into her skin. 

“Kore no longer,” he said, his voice nearly cracking as he steadily escalated his pace. The cool armor of his cuirass beared down against her naked back. They were still encased in darkness, but that did not matter. She could feel his hot mouth on her neck and his cock moving inside of her with increasing urgency.

“Maiden no more,” she agreed, panting, experimentally squeezing her cunt around him. That earned her a hiss, and for a terrifying moment, she thought he might have lost control of the chariot...only to realize that he had purposefully tried to frighten her for challenging him. Annoyed, she squeezed herself around him again and he chuckled darkly, lacing his words with venom. “You are...so _dangerous_.” He was all around her, encasing her in his iron will.

His other hand released her hair and began to work exclusively on her clit, rubbing around the hood in small circles. A new wave of pleasure pulsed from her sex through the rest of her body; her breath hitched. She pushed back on him, folding her hand atop his. She poured her power into the touch, and he cried out. “I am your queen,” she said.

“Yes,” he agreed, shivering as she continued to touch his hand, burning his skin with the power she commanded over life itself. “Yes, you are my queen,” he breathed, tenderly kissing the mark he had bitten into her neck. “As I am your king.”

“From this day—” she pushed against him, urging him to increase his pace; she was close. He groaned. She poured all the power she had into her touch; into her cunt that sheathed him. A gift of power; a god’s embrace. On this day, he did not claim her—rather, it was she who claimed him. 

“To the end of days!” he cried out. He shuddered as he came, holding her tightly as she followed him there. Before her eyes, the resplendent kingdom of the Underworld began to materialize: the glittering white Fields of Asphodel; the shining meadows and gardens of Elysium; the imposing dark figure of his palace...and the burning lands of Tartarus that lay beyond. “Welcome home,” he whispered into her ear, “Dread Queen Persephone.”

She woke with a start, and saw his blue eyes burning in the darkness, watching her. A heady mix of feelings and memories rushed through her mind. She swallowed hard. “I saw you die.”

He opened his arms, leaning forward in his seat. “And yet I live.”

Her eyes darted to her ankle, which was wrapped in a cast. She wiggled her toes, finding no pain. The memories continued to burn through her mind, scalding her in their intensity. She shut her eyes, clenching her fists as she remembered the sight of him collapsing in the snow; him collapsing in the dirt after a giant lanced a spear through him—and other deaths besides. His weight dipped onto the bed, and the warmth of his body radiated near her feet. His rough palm caressed her shin. 

Persephone’s eyes shot open. “Did I say you could touch me?”

In the darkness, he flinched, like she had burned him, and he pulled his hand from her leg. “You are angry.” 

“Should I not be, after all your lies?” The memories, ancient and new, began to overtake her senses. She held her stillborn son in her arms while her once-mighty husband withered away to little more than skin and bones. 

“No. Your anger is justified.” He sighed, moving to stand. “And I see that I am still upsetting you. I will take my leave.”

“Hades.” He froze. “Did I give you permission to stand—or to leave?”

He glowered at her, his expression hard as granite. “You did not.”

She threw her legs over the side of the bed and stood, breaking the cast that encased her ankle. She placed her hand on his shoulder, pushed down on it, and—arrogantly—he resisted her. “ _Kneel_ ,” she ordered. 

“As my queen commands.” Seething, he lowered himself before her. She ran her hand along his shoulder, up to his neck, and cupped his cheek. She could see his breath as his chest heaved; the room was quite cold. 

“Zagreus is alive,” she said, the revelation and trueness of the statement twisting in her stomach. Her son, alive: a beautiful, devastating truth.

“Yes.” She ran her fingers through his hair, enjoying the thickness of it, the softness of it. His eyes fluttered shut, his nostrils flared. “What did you do?” she asked.

He told her. A pact: a sacrifice of himself—and others. She stared at him in disbelief. “How...how could you?” she stammered. Anger boiled in her veins. She was his lover, his wife, his queen...and yet he had not bothered to tell her of his plan. 

He looked away from her, ashamed. “It was the only way.” In response, she materialized her favorite stygian dagger, and held its edge flush to his neck. “Was it, Hades?” she asked him, forcing him to look back up at her. He gulped, and the stone of his throat bobbed, drawing ichor. He glared at her, hot fury burning in his eyes. Good. She matched his fury with a scowl of her own.

“Yes.” His voice remained stoic, though his harsh scowl betrayed his true feelings. “Everything I did, I did for our son—and for you.”

She pressed the edge of the dagger further into his neck, and he hissed. “Yet you failed to consult me. Why is that?” When he did not immediately answer her question, she cut him deeply, and he winced. “ _Hades_.”

“Because you wouldn’t speak with me!” he shouted, flinching again as the dark stygian blade sliced through the sensitive skin of his neck. “You hid away from me,” he continued, grimacing in pain, “from everyone! I had to rule the realm again on my own. And I—I... _needed_ you.”

Persephone remembered: she spent days upon days in her chambers, leaving them only to weep by their son’s grave. She spurned his touch; she had learned that to try and make life with a death god was folly. They grew distant from one another, and he slinked back into the shadows of their kingdom, where he watched her and yearned after her love from afar. Trembling, she pulled the dagger from his neck, examining his wounded flesh as it slowly stitched itself back together. “You kept this from me,” she said, her once-furious molten anger quickly cooling to a softly glowing ember. She had missed him. “You should not have.”

“I know…” he said, his shoulders sagging as he looked down at her feet once more. “I am...sorry.” He pressed his head against her stomach and again she wound her fingers into his hair. “Forgive me,” he pleaded. “Forgive me, Persephone. Please.”

Power flowed through her at his utterance of her name. Her body hummed; she was, slowly, beginning to feel whole.

“I will...” she said, trailing off. He shivered at her words, trembling in fear and anticipation of what she would say next. “...In due time.” She heard him stifle a cry of anguish, sobbing against her. As her power returned, so did her anger with him. “But first,” she said, hauling him up to his feet by his tie and then forcing him back down onto his bed, “I will punish you for your deeply insulting transgression against me.”

Straddling his hips, she pinned his arms above his head, and burned off her hospital gown with the black, cleansing flames of the Underworld. He arched a brow at her, confused at her sudden shift in mood. “Persephone?”

“I am still angry with you.”

“Aye, I can see that.” He nodded his head in the direction of the blade she still held, precariously pointed at his heart. She smiled down at him, slicing off his tie as she cut open the buttons of his blazer and shirt with the tip of the dagger, revealing the hard, quivering planes of his muscles beneath. He squirmed, shutting his eyes and panting as she traced shallow cuts into his skin, opening his old scars. She could feel his cock swelling against her, and her smile grew as she leaned down to kiss his ear. “But I still love you,” she said, placing the dagger aside. He shuddered underneath her, rolling his hips up ever-so-slightly.

“And I love you,” he said, his voice cracking with strain. She could feel him struggling to break her grasp, fighting to embrace her, but she kept him pinned down with a power greater than his brute strength. “Let me hold you,” he begged, desperate. “Persephone, please.” She did not listen; only when she reached her destination, would she release him. 

“And I’ve missed you,” she said, crawling up his torso, breathing ancient words into his skin. His hips bucked involuntarily, seeking friction, and finding none.

He groaned. “I’ve missed you, too, for so long—”

“So I will take my pleasure on you,” she said, moving to hover above his head. His eyes opened at the heat of her closeness, and she could see lust and rage burning there, warring with each other. She smiled down at him, hooking her thighs past his broad shoulders and positioning her wet, dripping cunt over his face, “until I deem you worthy of my forgiveness.” 

“As my queen commands,” he hissed, wrapping his powerful hands around her hips. “I command it,” she said, grinding herself into his open mouth; her eyes rolled back as she felt his tongue eagerly lapping at her folds, his calloused fingers pressing painfully into her the flesh of her thighs. 

She rolled her hips onto his face violently, enjoying how his nose pressed against her clit each time she moved. His fingers dug into her skin in kind, and she knew that his vice grip would leave bruises. 

She raked her fingers through his hair, and scratched his scalp hard enough to draw ichor when he plunged his tongue into her entrance, kissing her there as if he were kissing her mouth. She heard him grunt, saw the faint glint of amusement in his eyes when she glanced down at him, and squeezed her thighs around his neck harder in retaliation for his audacity; that glint of amusement flickered into irritation as he felt his breathing being cut off. 

“You still...don’t...understand...Hades,” she huffed, shutting her eyes as hot waves of pleasure pulsed inside her with each new word she spoke. Her legs were shaking now, trembling with strain, and sweat was beading on her forehead. She cursed, and heard a muffled grunt from him; laughter, she guessed, intoxicatingly masculine—and also, at the moment, infuriating. Her hands grabbed onto his hair brutally, pulling on it, as he was so often fond of doing to her, and he only kissed her with more fervor, tonguing long-forgotten words of love into her folds, prying her open, and lapping at her clit like a man starved. She threw her head back, nearly cresting, “I...am... _angry,”_ she moaned, feeling her cunt pulse around his tongue. “ _With_... _you_ —” Her last word burned up into an incoherent cry, and the scalding heat of her orgasm coursed from her sex throughout the rest of her body, turning her insides and skin into fire and ash. 

As she came back to herself, she found that he was still lapping at her, holding her tightly through the shuddering aftershocks of her climax. She moved off of him, overwhelmed, and he sat up, wiping his face with his forearm. They glared at each other. 

“What more do you want?” he asked, furious. His eyes were dark, his voice rough. He was enjoying this, the bastard. She grabbed him by the throat, and he caught her wrist. She squeezed his neck; he returned the pressure. “To know I am your queen.”

“You are…” he gasped, choking in her tightening grip, “my queen.” His eyes were blazing.

Anger surged through her at his words. He had lied to her. She missed him; she _loved_ him—but he had lied to her, hidden things from her. “Then I would have you worship me as one,” she seethed, digging her fingers into his neck before releasing him. 

He coughed as soon as she let him go, massaging where her hand had bruised his throat. She locked eyes with him, and she could tell he was no longer amused with her antics. He bowed his head towards her defiantly, never breaking his gaze. “And how does my queen wish to be worshipped?” 

“With you on your back,” she said, shoving him towards the headboard, “your body,” she pressed her hands against his suit, burning it off, “and mind,” she straddled his hips once again, feeling the hard flesh of his cock pulse with ichor underneath her, “open to me.”

His eyes twitched and his mouth pressed into a thin line. She could tell he was grinding his teeth together, off and on, and she knew it was not due to the pleasure of her being on his lap. His hand reached out to her face. “ _Hades_ ,” she demanded, making him wince. Neither one moved. The seconds ticked by. “Do not deny me this.”

“ _Fates_ ,” he cursed, grabbing the back of her head forcefully. “As my queen commands,” he sneered, and he pulled her down into a crushing kiss. Persephone could taste herself on his tongue, equal parts bitter and sweet. She kissed him in return, ravenous, and rubbed herself on him like she was trying to possess him. Soon, darkness poured out of him and into her through their kiss, and she began to see and feel the world through his perspective: the near-overwhelming heat of her cunt as he pressed himself into her; the slick wetness of how she sheathed him. “More,” she moaned, and she felt him shudder. “I want more.” He had hidden himself from her for too long; far, far too long. “I want—all of you.”

Darkness engulfed her vision, her mind. She saw his memories, raw and unguarded. The pain of losing Zagreus. The pain of...of losing _her_ , as well. The grief and madness that overtook him, pushing him to seek out the Fates, to betray his family; the shame and the guilt he carried for doing so, then and now.  
  


Black tendrils of smoke caressed her skin, making her sigh. She saw all the lives he had lived: a poet; a knight; a mortal king, once or twice—and she saw the life he lived now. The men he killed; the glee with which he took their lives; and the brutal satisfaction he derived from being ruthless and untouchable. The heavy chains of guilt that wrapped around his heart.

His hands were on her hips, trembling as he pressed up into her, filling her completely. He was all around her, a cloud of fathomless black smoke, and she cried out. Kissing his neck, she poured her essence into him—her _life_ into him—so that he could feel what she felt; see all her memories; and understand the soul-rending grief each of his deaths had caused her. 

He sobbed, crying her name, seeking her mouth for comfort, and she obliged him, kissing him tenderly. Her heart broke at the pain her tenderness caused him: guilt lashed at every memory he had of her. She whispered his name, and it only made him hurt more; only made him angrier; only served to pull him apart further.

Slowly, his hips became more urgent, and she encouraged him, the simmering rage she found inside his heart spurring her on. She held onto his shoulders as she rode him. The rage was everywhere, all-consuming, she realized with a start, and her breath hitched. His hands gripped her tightly; he was close. She could feel the tingling of his climax starting to build, unfurling itself from the tip of his cock down into the rest of his body. She squeezed herself around him, and they both moaned. 

“I am your queen,” she said, kissing his neck. She poured her power into him, her love into him...and for the first time, she feared it would not be enough. She said his name, kissing it into his skin; a prayer.

“And I am your king,” he answered, his eyes screwing shut, his words coming in labored breaths, “to the end of our days.” He pressed up into her one final time, the sudden power of his orgasm breaking him apart as she made love to him. He held her tightly, as if he were afraid she would disappear from his arms.

The darkness he shared with her returned to him, and she shuddered in the cold it left behind. He kissed the top of her head. “I am sorry.”

She smoothed back his hair and kissed his nose. “I know you are.”

His eyes searched hers. She saw desperation there—and she saw the rage that her touch had failed to abate. “Do you forgive me?”

“Yes,” she said, cupping his cheek. “But, my love, do you forgive yourself? This...fury inside of you. It frightens me, Hades. I...fear for you.”

He sat up, gently pushing her off him. “I should not have let you see me like that.” 

Already, she could see him building walls around his heart. He was running from her. After all this time, running—hiding from her. Tears formed at the edges of her eyes, but she held them in. She would not cry. “Don’t be ashamed—we shared the embrace of the gods…”

“It is a titan practice,” he growled, standing up. He was not waiting for her permission, and it was apparent that he would not be asking for it, either. “Would that it had withered away alongside them.” 

She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Please, Hades, just talk to me—”

“And what would _that_ solve?” he bellowed, glaring at her. “You have already seen everything!”

“Aidoneus,” she breathed, moving towards him. She saw his fingers curl into fists. “I know I was lost to you, but I am here now. Do not carry this burden alone.”

He blinked, and a war of emotions twisted across his face. “Spare me your pity,” he said finally, stepping away from her. And so the wall had been built. She would not cry; she would _not_.

“Where are you going?” she asked him, watching him as he dressed, layer by layer, as if he were a mortal man. “Hades?”

His eyes flashed towards her, hard, and she saw a human man, angry and prideful. “Out.”

Persephone looked towards the window: the storm had only grown stronger. She pressed her teeth together, holding her hand against her throat as she bit back a sob. “You are running from me.”

“I need to clear my head,” he stated, not looking at her as he walked out the door, leaving her alone in the darkness. No long after, in the wake of her husband’s cold absence, Thanatos walked in, bowing low. He kept his eyes downcast from her naked form. “My lady.”

“Thanatos, go follow him,” she said, clothing herself with a wave of her hand. Her heart was pounding. She would not cry. “He is still...not fully himself.”

“The king has requested that I stay here, in order to protect you.“

“Has he _ordered_ you to do this?”

Thanatos looked up at her, shaking his head, and she could see a mischievous grin pulling at his features. 

“Then do as I command and follow him,” she said. “And make sure he does not do anything rash.” 

Death bowed to her, disappearing in a cloud of darkness. She turned to the window, looking outside at the frigid waste of Empire City. _Marie_ , she thought. _Natalie_. She crossed her arms, freezing in the cold air of his bedroom. She called forth a heavy cloak for herself, but its warmth brought little comfort. _Hades_ , she thought. Lightning flashed; snow and hail rained down like bullets. _Where will you go?_  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooo also i was listening to this song writing this chapter, so y'all might enjoy it. i have a whole playlist i'm putting together lmao, i'll share it in the next update. as always, i love y'all's feedback. 2020 was rough and 2021 do be lookin like it'll be more of the same, and writing this has been v cathartic for me. i've got school starting here shortly in feb so idk how much i'll be able to update, esp when it starts—but just know y'all have been great and i've really enjoyed sharing this story with you :) 
> 
> link for song:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hprK_bVg2ro&ab_channel=LOWROARMUSIC


	18. Kin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> after that long intermission of smut, we are back to some plot stuff

Hades stepped outside into the maelstrom, shielding himself from the hail and rain with the black flames of his realm. It took concentration; it took power. He clenched his jaw, feeling the vein in his forehead pulse from the effort. _Weak_ , he thought, utterly disgusted with himself. 

Steadily, he walked forward, aimless and frustrated, and soon found himself at a crossroad. He pushed his senses outward, searching for signs of Hecate, and cracked his knuckles in frustration when he did not find any. 

Blowing out his nose harshly, he knelt and planted his hands on the asphalt, seeking to enter the Underworld. Sweat beaded on his forehead; the earth rumbled. He gasped, and—no entry. Inside his mind, he could hear the three Fates laughing. 

“To smoke and ash with all of you!” he shouted, slamming his fist against the pavement. A large stone of hail struck near him, breaking through a car’s windshield, and he cursed. Ambrosia—he needed Ambrosia, but he no longer had any. 

His chest burned, and he clutched it, lurching forward in the snow. Hades shut his eyes, and when he opened them, he saw Zagreus, as a young man...dead. He screamed, holding his head as the image tore through him and pounded behind his eyes. 

Curiously, a raven swooped down and cawed at him, pecking at his knee, and paying no heed to the hail that beat down upon it. “Away with you, beast,” he moaned. “Away.”

His chest felt strangely wet, and he looked down at himself to see a stain of red expanding from where he had been wounded by Hermes. Blood on his body; he shut his eyes. He saw Zagreus, dead once more. He wailed, a black burning flame of sorrow in the snow. 

\---

Odin spied the young man—or what appeared to be a young man—burning, pouring forth shadows and spirits, completely uncontrolled. Odin did not recognize the man, but could sense his power. Huginn returned to him, perched upon his shoulder, and Odin flushed at the contact. The Underworld deity he had suspected: very ancient, and very...unhappy. 

“Hail, noble cousin,” Odin said, calling forth a sphere of light into his hand to illuminate the dark street. 

The man—Hades, Odin knew—shut his eyes, and all forms of shadows that sprang forth from him dissipated, as if they were never there. Coming back to himself, he stood, and wiped off the snow and dirt from his knees. Odin watched him warily, hoping to offer a gift of friendship—but also knowing that the man before him was liable to strike at any moment. Hades craned his neck back and forth and rolled his shoulders, adjusting his tie. “Who the hell are you, old man?” he asked, visibly irritated. 

Odin arched a brow. Not quite the interaction he was expecting from the young man—or, rather, _ancient_ god. Odin bowed his head. “A friend. The All Father of my people.”

“All Father...You are Odin,” Hades said, recognition flashing across his hard eyes. He fished out a pack of cigarettes and lit one with his finger. “Yes, I do believe I have heard about you...in school. I am Hades. Well met.” He offered his hand, which struck Odin as an oddly human gesture. Odin took it, and suppressed a flinch at the burning rage he sensed in the god before him. Good Lady Demeter may have been causing the current storm, but her younger brother seemed to be just as incensed...perhaps even more so. 

“Your sister is causing quite the stir,” Odin said, examining the dark god before him. His power was ancient, and yet he seemed so ill at ease with himself. _Strange_ , Odin thought. 

Hades curled his lips around his cigarette, flashed his angry eyes up at the sky. “I’ve stolen her daughter.”

Muninn cawed into Odin’s ear. He nodded. “That was quite long ago.”

Hades tapped off the ashes of his cigarette to the ground. _Quite odd that he picked up such a habit_ , Odin thought. “Aye,” Hades said. “And I’ve done it once again. Though,” Hades inhaled a long drag from his cigarette, then breathed out, “I cannot continue to blame her for everything. Much of the fault lies with me—” The dark god winced then, pressing the heel of his palm into his eyes, and Odin could sense that he was a man at war with himself. “Do you have business with her?” Hades asked, through gritted teeth. “I am afraid I cannot help you with that.”

“She is drawing dangerous attention to herself—and to you,” Odin said, becoming increasingly alarmed. The god in front of him did not look well.

Hades barked a cruel laugh, though it sounded strained. Odin could see the man’s pulse beating in his forehead. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t care about this ridiculous conflict with the—what is it, the New Gods? I’ve my own familial squabbles to deal with.”

“They are a threat to all our kind, Hades.”

“As you say.” Hades scowled. “It seems that Death approaches.”

Odin cocked his head to the side, confused. “Aye…” He flushed at the cold presence he suddenly felt beside him. “Ah, Thanatos, my friend—”

“Am I not your Lord and Master?” Hades growled. Odin saw rage burning in the dark god’s eyes, and wondered if he had made a mistake by coming here and not going to the Lady Demeter instead. He looked up at the sky, which had grown so dark and ominous it reminded him of Ragnarök, and how that battle split the world. He suppressed a shudder. “I _told_ you to stay with her,” Hades said, furious. 

“Forgive me, Lord,” Thanatos said, bowing low. “But she ordered me here, and I dare not defy her. Not even for you.” 

Hades dropped his cigarette on the ground, smashed the butt with his foot. “I see she hasn’t had her fill of punishing me.” Odin arched a brow; Muninn cawed loudly. _Ah,_ he thought, slightly embarrassed. _Marriage problems_.

“My Lord, she is only trying to protect you—”

“Protect me?” Hades guffawed. “To smoke and ash with you and her—and the Fates.” Hades glared up at the swirling, impossibly dark sky. “And you as well, dear sister Demeter.”

Thanatos sighed. “My lord, the All Father speaks true. There is a war coming. The New Gods are weaker than us, but they are many, and they are quick to reproduce—”

“War, war, war—there’s always another fucking _war_ ,” Hades snarled, and darkness erupted from his back, smoking tendrils of burning ember and shadow. Odin stepped back from the gods, Death and his King, and watched. “I fought against the titans, and then against the giants. And, over the course of these many long years, I’ve fought in innumerable wars since, as a mortal—and I am tired. I am done fighting; I have nothing left to give. I want to go home and see my son; I want to rule my kingdom with my wife. I want no part of this foolish war.” 

“Hades,” Odin said, clearing his throat. The dark god’s gaze shifted to him, and Odin saw hot flames burning there. “None of us do. The New Gods seek conflict with us because they fade quickly. They kill our kin and steal our essence, in an attempt to stop themselves from fading.”

“I do not care,” Hades said. “Even gods must die.”

Odin gaped at him. “These are your kin—”

“My _kin,_ ” Hades snarled, “are the Olympians, whom I do not care for in the slightest. May they stay dormant and rot until the Earth itself is obliterated from the cosmos.”

Odin pursed his lips. No wonder there were so few of his kind left; they were all so taciturn!

“These deaths are permanent, Lord,” Thanatos said, clearing his throat. “The god taken, forever gone. In her rage, Lady Demeter has revealed herself, and it will only be a matter of time before they arrive. They will kill her.”

Hades’ eyes narrowed, burning, always burning. So much rage and anger inside the dreary Lord of Shades. What had happened? Odin watched him look up at the swirling sky, hatred written plain on his face. “Not unless I kill her first,” Hades said, his hard scowl twisting up into a cruel sneer. 

“My Lord, wait, you are still not—”

“I am done waiting.” The dark god disappeared in a cloud of smoke and shadow. 

“ _Fates_ ,” Thanatos cursed. “There he goes. Queen Persephone will have my head on a spike before this night is done. Excuse me, All Father.” And so Death followed his master. 

“Oh, dear...” Odin whistled, arching his brows. “That did not go the way I had hoped.” He looked up at the sky which flashed with bright lightning, and he wondered, for a moment, if Thor had decided to join in the fray. He sighed. “Suppose I better get a move on up there before the swarm arrives.” 

It would be soon, he knew. Very, very soon. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they gon' fight


	19. King of the Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which we have a godly WWE smackdown

Hades knit his brow in concentration. The wind was difficult to control. Flying, much like shapeshifting, was not one of his godly talents. Perhaps it could have been, in the days before he and his brothers’ shares of the world had been divided; but that was long ago, and he was of the earth now, of fire and stone, and the sky did not enjoy his presence.

A memory gripped him. He was on a plane, a Hercules C-130 military transport. He had his unloaded rifle seated on his lap. He was nineteen years old. Turbulence rocked the plane, and he shut his eyes. 

“Scared, private?” 

Sgt. Stevens was grinning at him. Twenty-three years old, but with the hard lines of a middle-aged man around his mouth. Logan gulped. “No, sergeant.”

“You sure?” Sgt. Stevens’ amused eyes darted down to Logan’s trembling hands. “You look pretty damn scared. You ever been on a plane before, Private Black?” The plane rocked again and Logan gripped his rifle tightly. “No, sergeant,” Logan said, trying to keep the moan from entering his voice. He was going to be sick. 

Sgt. Stevens peered at him thoughtfully. “Relax.”

Suddenly, Logan was thrown violently forward in his seat; it felt like he had been in a car crash. He sucked in a breath and cursed. “Feels like we’re gonna drop out of the sky, sergeant.”

He heard Sgt. Stevens’ warm laugh, and it calmed him. “It’s just turbulence, kid. We’re riding the air like...ha, like leaves on the wind. Ha ha.”

_Like leaves on the wind_ , Hades thought, frowning. Air currents pulled at his legs, threatening to throw him dangerously off course. Ice formed at the edges of his eyelashes, and he had to blink them away furiously in order to keep his vision clear. His body flushed with sweat; his lungs burned with the effort of staying in the air. He called forth his bident into his hand, gritting his teeth as his palm burned in protest. “Damn you…” he growled. It was no use; he could call forth no weapon, and the more he tried, the more painful his headache grew. 

Harsh laughter settled upon his shoulders, and he knew then that he had found Demeter’s place in the whirling clouds. “Brother,” she said, her lip turning up, “I never knew you could fly.”

“Nor I you, sister,” he ground out, facing her. His control of the wind slipped, just for a moment, and Hades felt his stomach drop as he plummeted several thousand feet into the air beneath. He heard her chuckle above him, and threw her a hard glare in response. Lightning flashed, blinding him, and when his vision returned, he saw the Old Man, sitting at his desk smoking a cigar. 

“You know, Logan, you remind me of someone I once knew.” Logan watched the Old Man carefully, examining the cool nonchalance with which he carried himself. “How’s that, sir?” he asked. 

The Old Man smiled, tapped the ash off his cigar. “No need to call me ‘sir.’ You’re not in the military anymore, and I’m not your commanding officer.”

Logan flushed, swallowing hard. “Sorry, si—I mean, Viejo. Force of habit.” The Old Man chuckled, discordant and twisted, and Logan felt his heart begin to pound. Exhaling around his cigar, the Old Man said: “It’s funny to think that such a long time has gone by...and yet you’re still very much the same in many ways.”

Logan cocked his head to the side. “I’m not sure I understand.”

The Old Man’s smile twisted up his face, and Logan had to fight with himself to keep from shuddering. “Oh you will, in time...Hades.”

“Hades!” Demeter shouted, wrenching him from the memory. She had Zeus’ lightning in her hand. “Do you really wish to challenge me, when you can’t even keep yourself together?”

“Challenge you?” Hades sneered, glaring up at her. “You misunderstand me, dear sister. I’ve not come here to challenge you—I’ve come here to end your life.” He called forth a black blade, and this time, his palm did not protest. Stygius was not his most preferred arm, but it would have to do. 

Demeter laughed, aiming a crackling bolt of Zeus’ lightning at him. “You will try,” she said. The lightning tore at him immediately, through the rain and the clouds, and Hades pressed his teeth together as he barely managed to parry the direct blow. Stygius simmered in his hands, radiating the heat of primordial thunder. _That was too close_ , he thought. 

“That was too damn close, sergeant!”

Sgt. Logan Black chuckled, grabbing his lieutenant in a rough hug. He was twenty-two years old, already on his second deployment. Will was fifteen, looking at universities to apply to, and thought the world of his older brother. Logan was trying to set a good example. “Sorry, sir. Gotta let them think they can win once in a while, though, right?”

“Hell yeah, gotta raise that morale before you crush it completely!” They laughed.They were playing flag football in the hot Iraqi desert. The sun beat upon each of their backs, relentless and angry. “Sir….” Logan nodded his head towards the approaching captain, wiping the sweat from his brow. His lieutenant turned around, and both men greeted the captain in unison: “Good afternoon, sir.” The platoon stood silent, waiting. Another mission; another chance to face death. Some welcomed it; others, rightfully, feared it. The seconds ticked by. They waited.

“Afternoon, boys,” the captain said. “Lt. White, I’m tasking you and First Platoon with a recon patrol. You’ll be taking route yellow; Second and Third will be on routes red and green.”

“Rah, sir,” Lt. White said. “What’s the company’s mission here?”

The captain paused, wiping the sweat from the back of his neck. “Movement to contact. Get your men ready.”

Lt. White looked at Logan, and he was smiling, thirsting for blood. Logan swallowed hard, his body humming in anxiety and fear. “You ready to go get some, sergeant?”

“Kill,” Logan responded, though he had never felt less motivated in his life. 

That night, Logan led a squad of thirteen men through the small village that sat at the end of route yellow. A man started running as soon as he saw their approach in the darkness, and Logan shouted: “Follow him, follow him! He’s getting away!”

And so Logan’s squad followed the man into his small house, kicking down his door, pointing their guns at his terrified family. The wife started screaming; the children were crying. The man tried saying something in English, but it was broken, and Logan couldn’t understand him. “Shut up!” Logan shouted. “Shut the fuck up!” There was a gunshot. The woman fell. _No,_ Logan thought, desperate. _No!_

Lightning surged through Hades’ body, slamming him thousands of feet, hard, into the frozen ground. The earth erupted around him as the wave of energy from his impact shook buildings and toppled street lights. Several car alarms went off and a fire hydrant burst open. He heard people screaming in their homes as pain shot like bullets through his head and ribs. He could feel liquid beginning to fill his lungs. He groaned. Smoke wafted in front of his eyes, and he shut them. 

“You ever been in love, Logan?” Chelsea was a gift for him, as the Old Man said, for his birthday...and for a job well done. She sat astride his lap, fiddling with his tie. 

“Can’t say I have.” 

“No way, such a handsome stud like you?” She looked up at him with big, blue eyes. “You think you could love me tonight?” He exhaled hard from his nose, feeling hot and uncomfortable. Her searing hand was pressed upon his groin, rubbing him there, trying to make him hard. “Oh, what’s the matter, baby?” she asked him, cupping his face. “Am I not your type?” He shuddered. She was blonde, buxom, and gorgeous; he could get hard for her—he _should_ get hard for her. And yet— “I’ve just got a lot on my mind right now...darlin’.”

He had killed a man that day. And worse? He had _enjoyed_ doing it. It wasn’t like the first time he had taken a life, when his stomach crawled up his esophagus and out his mouth; and it wasn’t like the second or third time, either, when his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and he had to run to a priest to ask for forgiveness for a sin he couldn’t fully confess. No, this time...this time he killed a man, and it was quick, and it was easy, and Logan “Hades” Black savored the violence: the light leaving his target’s eyes, and the fear he saw there, so potent and delicious. _I am the Master of Death_ , Logan thought, holstering his pistol. _And you are my new subject_. 

“Oh, poor baby,” Chelsea said, sliding down his torso, pulling him from his thoughts. Undaunted, she kept rubbing his dick through his slacks. “I’ll make you forget about it all,” she said, unbuckling his belt, and sliding his zipper down. She gazed up at him, taking him, still soft, into her mouth, and he threw his head back against the sofa. “Fuck,” he hissed, and he heard and felt her laugh around his slowly hardening cock.

Demeter’s laughter stirred him awake. “Little brother, it seems that your arrogance and pride will once again be your undoing.” She was standing over him, at the edge of the crater, which was rapidly beginning to fill with rain and hail. He stood, against the protesting, broken bones of his still-healing ribs. 

“Perhaps,” Hades said, smiling tightly. He could feel the breaking earth beneath his feet: its brutal, unyielding power, calling out to him. Some of his strength was returning to him, ever-so-slightly, and ever-so-slowly. 

“You fool,” Demeter snapped. “We are both connected to Gaia—or have you forgotten, Hades?”

“I have not forgotten, dear sister, but make no mistake: you are on my turf now.”

“Turf?” Demeter slid down the side of the crater, tutting her tongue. Lightning crackled furiously in her hand. This would be their arena. “You are still sounding like a gangster, even now. I cannot imagine that my daughter enjoys hearing you speak this way.”

Hades huffed out, twirling his blade, assessing its weight and balance. Its power coursed through him: the power of the Styx; of the Underworld; of shades, and sorrow, and punishment. “You’ve no idea what she likes or dislikes. You didn’t then, and you certainly don’t now.”

“And you do? I can smell her on you, you know—lilac coats your skin just as much as ash and death. I wonder, Hades, why are you here now, and not with her?”

Hades stopped spinning Stygius; darkness burned through his senses, enveloping him. “I already told you, Demeter: I am here for your life…” He smirked, sensing the presence of his friend and servant,“...and Death quickly approaches.”

\---

Odin watched his three ancient kinsmen from his place upon the edge of the crater. His heart began to drum; the swarm was very quickly approaching. 

“Thanatos,” Demeter spat, flashing her eyes to Death, “this doesn’t concern you. My little brother and I have unfinished business.”

“Forgive me, dear Lady,” Death said, bowing, “but the New Gods are on their way, and we must leave. Please, end this storm.”

“I do not fear the New Gods!” Demeter shouted, lifting her bolt of lightning into the sky. “And I do not fear Death—I will take _everything_ away!” She threw down the bolt, and an explosion burned through the air: a great wave of power fueled by grief and rage, warring with each other. Muninn cawed into Odin’s ear. _They are here_ , he thought, panic gripping him. _Hurry, Thanatos. Hurry_.

\---

Hades held his blade against the force of Demeter’s lightning. The power was incredible, setting his teeth on edge, but he blocked it, and sent the blow flying back to her. The rain came down harder, and, no longer focusing on shielding himself from the storm’s effects, Hades felt his suit and shoes become water-logged and heavy. To his left, Thanatos writhed on the ground, his black wings charred and smoking. Before him, Demeter swayed forward, her clothes burnt to a crisp. “I...will...take...everything...away…” she panted. 

Hades rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck. “Not before I turn you into fire and ash.”

She screamed and ran forward, calling down lightning and hail from the sky. He lifted his sword in his hand, causing sharp spikes of earth and fire to erupt from the ground near her feet. She somersaulted over his newly-formed obstacle, landing directly in front of him, and striking with her lightning-blade towards his neck. He ducked in time, but only just; he could feel the wind shift right above his hair. Countering, he stepped inside her guard and grabbed her wrist tightly. 

“You are mine,” he growled, pulling her to him. 

She laughed: haughty, proud, and undefeated. “And you are a fool, little brother.” Her knee kicked up to his groin, striking with the power and force of lightning. The pain was immediate, shooting up from his bruised testicles throughout the rest of his abdomen, and he was forced to double over and dry-heave. 

“Tch,” he heard Demeter say. Lightning crackled loudly by his ear as dizziness threatened to make him fall to his knees. “Pathetic. To think Father was bested by _you_.”

_Father_ , he thought, shutting his eyes. 

“Hey, kiddo, do you...you want to talk about your pops?” Richard Black placed a comforting arm around his shoulder. He was thirteen years old, sitting on a park bench after being suspended from school for hitting a teacher. _You’re cursed just like your criminal daddy_ , she had said. _You’ll be in jail by the time you’re fifteen_ , _or dead—and either way, the world ain’t gonna mourn your loss._

Logan shook his head. “Don’t see the good in talkin’ 'bout him.”

Richard Black sighed. “Believe it or not, Logan, talking about these things can help. Can help a lot, actually.”

Logan sniffed. His eyes felt hot. “Not when you’re no good.”

“Do you think that you’re no good, Logan?” 

Logan wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, sniffed again. “My Daddy was no good.” Oh god, he was crying. Thirteen years old and crying, like a baby. “And Sister Marge said I’m just like him.” That he came from a bad seed; that he had a demon inside of him. Logan Anthony Astarita, son of Horatio Anthony Astarita: bad blood, cursed blood. Evil and rotten to the core. 

“Come here,” Richard said, hugging Logan tight to him, kissing the top of his head. “You’re not your father, son.” Logan cried harder, shaking as he let the tears flow out of him. “You’re not your father, and you don’t ever have to be like him.” 

Hades’ eyes fluttered open, feeling the heat of Demeter’s lightning burn across his cheek. She was about to gore him through the temple. Desperate, he plunged his stygian blade into the ground, breaking the earth around them, and shades erupted from its depths. 

“Hades!” Demeter screamed, horrified as the spirits of the dead began to crawl out from the splintering earth beneath their feet. She called a chain of lightning down to the earth, but the shades were undaunted—for they were already dead. Terror gripped her eyes, and Hades felt excitement and power course through him at her fear. “What are you doing? _Have you gone completely mad?_ ” 

Hades smiled, relishing the power of the Underworld as it burned hot and raging his veins. “I am the King of the Dead,” he said, slowly stalking towards her as she retreated. “And I bring the dead with me.” 

The army rushed forward, their ghostly, wretched bodies overwhelming her, even as she called upon lightning; even as she called forth bludgeoning stones of hail. Hades watched and smiled, his dark glee growing ever brighter as he saw his sister become weaker and weaker, enduring a thousand different cuts and lashes from his valiant dregs, until she was forced to her hands and knees, and could no longer wield the lightning she held in her trembling fingers. With a dismissive wave of his hand, the shades of Hades' army returned to their dark abode, as if they were never there, and Demeter shivered. 

Slowly, he walked towards her, savoring her fear. Standing beside her, he lifted her chin with the point of his blade. So graceful, his sister. _A pity_ , he thought. “Any last words?” he asked, locking eyes with her. 

“I will take everything away,” she said. His nostrils flared, anger surging through him at her unbreakable pride. 

He held his sword aloft, preparing to strike. Yes, he would take her life. The fire in him burned hot; boiling, boiling rage. “Not in this lifetime—” A rock hit his temple, breaking his focus. “What in the...?”

“Heads up, cousin!”

Hades' eyes darted up to an old man standing on the edge of their arena. “Odin,” he snarled. “How dare you—”

“They’re here!” Odin shouted, nodding behind Hades. Hades turned and looked up at the sky, a swarm of...creatures he couldn’t identify. “Fates,” he cursed. 

“Best get a move on, little brother,” Demeter said. He glanced down at her; she was fading away. “Before they pick up your scent and catch you. Until next we meet.”

He snarled, slicing down at her disappearing form—and cutting only air. Gone; she was gone. The rage in him burned, and he screamed, overtaken and overwhelmed. Shadows burst forth from his body; his ears rang. 

“Aidoneus.” He felt a touch on his cheek, and the fire in him cooled, but only just. He blinked, and saw his wife in front of him, and the impending army of New Gods that was just about to reach them. “Y-you are here,” he stammered, completely astonished.

“I am,” she said, and she gazed up at him with love in her green eyes. He could see it. She still loved him; even after everything he put her through. She _loved_ him. 

“Persephone, I…” He gritted his teeth, struggling to blink back tears as she stroked his cheek. “I feel like I’m breaking inside. I don’t know what to do with this anger, this pain—”

“Hush, my love.” She stood on her toes, pressed their foreheads together. Around them, the storm had stopped, and Dawn’s red light was beginning to caress the sky—yet he could hear the savage cacophony of the New God’s cries as they grew ever-closer. She kissed him tenderly, and his breath caught, ashamed. “We must leave this place at once,” she said, placing her hand on his chest. “Can you shadow-walk?” 

His legs were trembling; his sword had vanished. He was beginning to feel more and more like a man again...a human one. Hades shook his head, sheepish. “I don’t think I can walk at all. I feel...drained.” 

“My lord,” Thanatos said, touching his shoulder. “I can carry you.” Hades examined his friend, whose great, black wings still burned and smoked from Demeter’s lightning strike. “Than, you can barely stand—”

“Husband,” Persephone said, reaching up underneath his legs and ass, picking him up bridal-style. “I will carry you.” His eyes went wide, and he was about to protest, humiliated, but the sudden chill that ran across his skin stopped him. He shuddered, feeling ill and exhausted. “Aye, wife,” he said, resting his head against her shoulder. “You will...carry...me,” he said, beginning to drift off into slumber. 

“Dear cousins,” he could hear Odin shout. “I hate to ruin this beautiful scene of love and acceptance—but the New Gods are about to descend upon us!”

A screeching mass of thousands was the last thing Hades heard before falling completely into Hypnos’ halls. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just wanna say i love each and every one of you for sticking through this silly plot-bunny. you are all *chef's kiss* wonderful. thank you for your feedback and kudos!


	20. Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we see when H and P first met, and something is revealed

The World Above’s light was bright: the sun’s rays bathed every blade of grass, every stone and gravel path, with warmth and radiance. _Too damn bright_ , Hades thought, gritting his teeth and squinting as the light seared his sensitive eyes. He longed for the quiet stillness of his realm; the gentle illumination of the sun as it refracted through the depths of the Styx, coating the sky of the Underworld in the gleam of sparkling twilight. Yet he had come here for a reason: to investigate the powerful sense of creation that had dug down, deep into the earth, past the layers of magma and fire, past the shadows of Erebus, into his mind—a most unwelcome and yet... _intriguing_...disruption into his thoughts. 

He went to his scrying pool and watched, looking for any sign of the god who had dared to drill so low and enter his kingdom. His eyes widened, catching a shock of red-golden hair moving swiftly through the trees. His lips curled, recognizing the location: Enna. Demeter’s home. Was she trying to usurp him now, after all these years? He sighed. No, no—he and his sister got on well enough, and she was never hungry for power...least of all, hungry for power over the Other Side. But then, who? He gazed into the scrying pool, growing more irritated as he watched its liquid bubble and simmer, all the while providing no definitive answer. 

Hades’ nostrils flared and he exhaled, his breathing labored. Again, he felt that strange power reach down into him; his scalp tingled and his skin prickled into goosebumps. He gripped the edge of his scrying pool, shuddering as another wave of power coursed through him, feeling light-headed. “Enough of this,” Hades growled, his grasping hands tight and white-knuckled. He would go investigate the arrogant god who had dared to knock on his door. 

And so he cloaked himself in his armor, black and fathomless as the night sky. Finally, after donning his Helm of Darkness, Hades shadow-walked to the borders of Enna, where he had spied the flash of red hair. The wind rustled through the trees, heralding his arrival, though he was still hidden. A dazzling garden of flowers lay before him, their shining color and vibrance reminding him of the precious gemstones that adorned his hallowed halls. A sigh leaked out of him, slowly, almost painfully; for all the beauty of his home, he did miss certain aspects of the World Above. Hades breathed in, sighing harder as the heady scent of lilac and...something else he couldn’t quite place, wafted up into his nose. 

A soft moan curled around him, and his ears perked up, curious. Slowly, he stalked forward, following the sound as it increased in frequency and strength—until he froze. There was a goddess before him, bathing and...pleasuring herself. His mouth went dry. _Who is she?_ he wondered. He watched her, rooted in place and absolutely transfixed as she poured water over her head, tracing her soft fingers over the lines the droplets made down her collarbone and full breasts. He swallowed hard as she began fondle her nipples, her other hand slowly making its way down her stomach. 

_I...I should leave,_ Hades thought, burning with embarrassment. He had not meant to play the part of a voyeur, watching a young woman as she brought herself pleasure. As he began to turn away, another sigh escaped her, and a flower grew; the power of creation seared across his skin, in his mind. He suddenly felt dizzy, watching her, and he no longer had the strength to look away. 

She pushed herself up out of the pool, the water glistening and shining on her skin, and he could see her fingers rubbing ever-more insistently against her clitoris. Hades groaned at the sight, feeling his scrotum begin to pull taught to his abdomen, and his phallus begin to fill with burning ichor. More flowers began to grow as she pushed a tentative finger inside herself, once again sending power down into his domain—into _him_ , and he cupped himself, hissing loudly as his cock began to strain against the fabric of his pteruges. 

He watched her as her hips rose, flowers growing and blooming in waves, and he shivered. Reaching underneath his pteruges, he wrapped his hand around his throbbing cock, and began to stroke himself. Another flower bloomed, making him moan, and he threw a glance at it, forcing it to whither. He watched her as she writhed and gasped, and he grinned to himself; she had felt his presence. Placing her other hand on the ground, she called forth a verdant bed of vegetation, and its power coursed through him, forcing him to his knees and almost bringing him to climax. He growled at her challenge, bracing his free hand against the ground in turn; he would not be bested by her. Shadows covered the glade then, caressing each and every flower with their withering presence, and the garden decayed around them. 

She cried out, rubbing herself harder, twisting on the ground as if she were in pain, and he began to rock his himself into his hand, picturing himself moving inside her. “Who are you, theoi?” she asked, struggling to keep the moan from her voice. “I can—I can feel you in the earth.”

In answer, he sent shadows forth from his body, caressing her skin like he would if she were next to him. A tendril touched her mouth and he shuddered, feeling the softness of her lips. Another trailed down her quivering abdomen, tracing feather-light touches against her skin until it reached the soft folds of her vulva, whereupon it entwined itself around her quaking fingers. “Who do you think I am?” he asked, speaking to her and touching her through the shadows. 

“I do...not...know,” she whispered, rubbing her clit with increasing speed and pressure. “You...radiate p-power...and—and death—” she gasped, sticking two fingers inside of herself as she rolled her hips up, seeking the heady friction his shadow-touch provided. “...You...you are the Unseen One,” she finished, causing flowers to bloom in waves as her orgasm overwhelmed her. Hades exhaled through his teeth as she cried out, pumping his hand furiously, in time with her movements, until he himself spilled upon the ground with a ragged cry. Swallowing hard, he watched her as her eyes searched for him in the glade. “Reveal yourself,” she said, covering her hands over her breasts, suddenly shy. Around her and over her, he appeared as smoke, and she trembled underneath him. “You are shaking. Do I frighten you, sweet goddess?” he asked her, leaning his head down to her ear. 

“N-no,” she stammered, biting back a hiss as he took a nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the sensitive bud. “Hmm, how very brave,” he teased, kissing back up her collarbone and neck. Her breath hitched, and he shuddered as he felt her power set his skin aflame once more. Cautiously, he cupped his fingers on her cunt, making her moan as he gently massaged her wet folds.

“I would see your face, Lord,” she said, grasping at his body through the smoke and shadows. Gazing down at her, taking in the look of defiance and bravery in her green eyes, he smiled. “As you wish.” He removed his helm, placing it beside her head. Slowly, she cupped his cheek, and her touch burned him. “Why have you come here, Lord Hades?” she asked.

Why _had_ he come here? He didn’t know. His mind felt foggy, yet his body hummed with energy. A flower bloomed next to him and his breath caught. The power of creation; of life. He shut his eyes, reveling in her healing presence. “You summoned me,” he said, breathless. She canted her head to the side, curious, and before he could think to stop himself, he leaned down and kissed her softly, tenderly. Moaning, she opened her mouth to him, and their tongues caressed each other. He pulled back from her, pressing his forehead atop hers, and they shared their breath. “I’ve fallen in love with you,” he said. She laughed, rich and sweet like honey. “How is that possible? You do not even know my name. Do you mean to seduce me and steal my honor with your sweet words?” 

“Tell me your name, then,” he said, twirling a lock of her hair around his finger. Her hands were running through his hair, and he continued to gently massage her vulva, taking care not to push too hard; taking care not to frighten her. There would be a time and place for his darker appetites—and only if she would willingly indulge them. He sensed that she would: she created life, while he engendered its decay, and they would always challenge each other in an intoxicating dance. He smiled, kissing her neck; he eagerly awaited to test her will once more.

“I am...the Lady Demeter’s daughter...” she whispered, shutting her eyes as his thumb lightly began to rub circles around her clitoris. He chuckled as he felt her nails begin to dig into his back. _Oh, yes_ , he thought, wickedly, _We will make quite a pair_. “...Kore,” she ground out.

Kore. Zeus’ first child, though not considered royalty. Hades shut his eyes, reflecting on the day Demeter birthed her; the way she had cried when Zeus refused to acknowledge his daughter, whom he named Persephone, as his legitimate heir. ‘She will be powerful,’ Zeus had said, ‘and that will have to be enough for you, Demeter.’ _Powerful indeed_ , Hades mused, shivering at just her touch. He kissed her neck once more, on her beating pulse, and smiled as she writhed beneath him. “I _do_ know you,” he whispered, cupping her face with both hands, and she sighed in response, pressing her naked breasts against the hard bronze of his cuirass. With a thought, he burned away his armor, the tunic and pteruges he wore underneath, and together they gasped in unison as skin met skin. His newly-heavy arousal nudged against her folds, and she twisted her head away from him. Reaching down to touch her jaw, he turned her head back towards him. “Are you afraid I am going to hurt you?”

She swallowed hard. He could see her pulse beating wildly in her neck. “You are a god, Lord Hades. Such is the nature of your kind. Take what you will of me and leave.” 

Hades flushed at her words. The gods were indeed cruel. But—he was not his father, and nor was he his brothers. “Sweet Kore,” he whispered, kissing her forehead tenderly, “daring Persephone,” he kissed her mouth, shuddering as hooked a leg around his hip, “know that I love you, from this day forever more, and would never harm you.”

“How can you love me?” she asked him, again pouring the power of life into her touch. “We have only just met.”

_Destiny_ , he thought. _The will of the Fates_ —no, he shook his head; no, the will of his own heart. She ruled over life, as he ruled over death, and they would become one. “We are meant for each other,” he said, once again enveloping her in smoke and shadow as he kissed the top of her collarbone, her breasts. She moaned, exhaling faint breaths, and his cock ached with an ever-growing need to sheath himself inside of her. “Meant for each other?” she asked, panting as she rocked her hips up, experimentally, against his swollen flesh.

“Aye,” he growled, capturing her mouth in a searing kiss that had him rutting against her, but not-quite inside her. His hands settled on her hips, stilling her before they could abandon all sense and cross that threshold. “You rule over creation, over life itself,” he said, pressing his forehead to hers, “and I rule over Death and the dead. We are opposites...but equals, all the same, and so…” he gazed into her eyes, excitement brewing in him as he saw her breath hitch, “...you have captured my heart, sweet goddess—and I will never be able to give it to another.” 

He looked down at her, waiting. The air stilled around them, so that only their breathing could be heard. Time slowed, and it felt like they were the sole two beings in the cosmos. Moments passed; he waited. “...Do you...do you accept my love?” he asked her, finally, cautiously, and his voice wavered. _Please say yes_ , he thought, desperate. _Please choose me_. Her lips turned up slowly, almost imperceptibly...and then she smiled, radiant, and she answered him with a kiss; and Hades held her tightly, even as she turned into mist in his arms and disappeared; even as the glade around him vanished, and he appeared in a red room. 

He sat back on his knees, looking down at himself: he was wearing a charcoal gray, three-piece suit. The suit he'd been wearing when he was murdered. “What is this?” he asked, thoroughly alarmed. Where was he, just now? The image was blurry and far away, obscured by what felt like eons of time. There was a woman in his arms—had he been dreaming her? 

“Welcome, Hades.” He turned his head up to the sound of the voice, and saw a woman in a white dress standing over him. She held a spindle in her hand, and the threads there glistened and shone like mercury. He bowed his head to her, instinctively, and asked, "Who are you, my lady?”

“Inevitability,” she answered. 

He swallowed. “Lady Ananke.” One of the primordials; daughter of Chaos themself. She peered at him, and he struggled not to look away from her. “Do you love your son?”

_Son?_ Hades wondered. Green eyes flashed in his mind; his mother’s easy smile, and a deep calm swept through him. _Zagreus._ His son. He remembered. “Yes,” he answered. “With everything that I am.”

She cocked her head to the side, arching a graceful brow. “So I see. You sought to defy my daughters for him.”

“He is my son.”

“As you say, young Hades. Yet his life does not belong to you—nor indeed, even to himself.”

Hades’ hands shook, fear crawling across his skin like a legion of spiders. “I do not understand.”

“You will see soon enough that as you gain strength, as you return to who you once were, he fades—”

“ _No!_ ” Hades stood, shouting. “Do not tell me this!” Darkness poured from him, uncontrolled. Ananke looked down at him mildly, assessing him; slowly, she turned the spindle in her hand. “He was never meant to live. You know this.”

“ _He is my son!_ ” Shards of darkness erupted from him, hurtling towards her, yet she did not move, even as they impaled her body. Hades' chest burned, and once again he could feel the warmth of red, mortal blood coating his skin. “He is my son,” he repeated, tears welling in his eyes, blurring his vision. 

“It is only the inevitable,” Ananke said, fading away, “and you would do well not to defy the inevitable.”

He shut his eyes, and when he opened them, he held Zagreus in his arms, once again as a stillborn babe. “My son,” he said, pressing the child to his chest, rocking back and forth on his heels, “my son, my son…” In Hades’ arms, Zagreus aged into the young man Hades had met only briefly...though he was just as lifeless. Inside, Hades burned; inside, he felt himself break. Black liquid started pouring from the ceiling, through the cracks in the walls, through the tile beneath his feet, and it rose, flooding the room. Soon it was at his waist and then at his chest, but Hades did not move, even as it began lapping at his neck and his nose, overtaking his senses. He shut his eyes, welcoming the oblivion. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh, yeah. it really do be like that.


	21. Deliverance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shorter chapter here, but relevant nonetheless

As they traveled through the shadows, Persephone held her husband close, and her hold only grew tighter as she began to feel his body tremble. A feverish heat radiated off his skin, though his clothes were wet and freezing, and he groaned, pressing himself closer to her. Before her eyes, the shadows parted, and the piercing sound of a dish breaking reverberated around her. 

“ _Fates_ , Thanatos, how many times do I have to tell you that I don’t like you sneaking up on me through the shad—wait…Persephone...? It’s—it’s really you! He...he did it...” A melodic voice, that one; a handsome singer’s voice. Persephone felt a smile tug at her lips; their small retinue had evidently shadow-walked into Apollo’s kitchen while he was making breakfast.

  
  
“Phoebus,” Persephone greeted, slowly taking in the odd image of her half-brother. He was wearing an open bathrobe, bright red boxers, and a pair of...plushie deer slippers? She arched a brow. “You’re looking well.” Beyond that, he still looked very much the same as he had since she’d last seen him: golden haired and beardless, with sun-kissed skin, and the eternally youthful face he’d mistakenly believed would win over her affection, all those years ago.

"Thank you," he said. "You...you as well, sister."

  
  
Hades groaned once more against her and her gaze shifted down. Dawn’s warm, morning light was beginning to peek through the windows, and Persephone could see that Hades’ skin was flushed, with beads of sweat beginning to form on his forehead. Suddenly, Apollo was next to her, his lips pursed. After a long moment, Apollo sighed. “Ixion’s wheel," he cursed, "is he _trying_ to kill himself?” 

A bird cawed. “His sister, more like. Hail, Far-Striker,” Odin said, taking off his hat. 

“All Father,” Apollo said, nodding his head in the direction of the old man. “Seems I ought to have prepared for guests.”

Thanatos stood next to her. She could sense that his gray eyes were gazing down at her husband with deep concern. “You’re the only other active god in the city that I know. And Lord Hades is—”

Suddenly and violently, Hades began to convulse in her arms, and she felt his great weight being lifted from her embrace by Apollo wordlessly. She watched then, paralyzed, as her husband’s body went rigid on the dining table where Apollo placed him; she swallowed the immense pain in her throat as she saw his back arch and his legs spasm. She couldn’t speak; she felt like a young woman again. She was Stella Porter, helplessly watching the man she shouldn’t love get gunned down in front of her like a dog. 

A heavy, familiar hand pressed onto her shoulder. “My lady…” 

She found her voice. “What’s happening to him, Thanatos?” She ground her teeth together, feeling tears well at the edges of her eyes. Her voice sounded broken, but she could speak. 

“I don’t know—”

“It’s just a seizure,” Apollo answered, placing a pillow underneath her husband’s head. “All we can do now is wait for it to let him go.”

“Seizure?” Odin asked, taking a seat at one of the kitchen island barstools. He plucked out his glass eye and wiped it down with a handkerchief, before popping it back into his head. Persephone tried not to grimace. “Seems rather odd that a god of your uncle’s prominence and strength would fall victim to such a thing, even after shortly waking—”

Next to her, Thanatos exhaled. “It’s a...long, complicated story, Odin.”

“Suffice it to say, too much Ambrosia and trauma over a short period of time,” Apollo finished. 

All the while, her husband continued to convulse. Foam started forming at the edges of his mouth, and Persephone tore her eyes away from him, unable to look any longer. She cried out, clutching her chest; she could still hear him wheezing. Thanatos’ arm curled around her shoulder, pulling her into an overly-familiar embrace. Overwhelmed, she allowed it. “My lady, Hypnos gave me his blessing to help you sleep...if you’d like to, I could—”

Darkness surged into the room, engulfing the early morning light of Dawn. “Dammit, uncle, you’re going to bite your tongue—”

One of Odin’s birds squawked, and the sound made the hair on the back of Persephone’s neck stand on end. “We need to wake him up,” Odin said, whistling. “He’s releasing too much power; he’ll lead the horde right to us.”

Persephone gasped as a tendril of smoke and shadow burned across her skin and swept through her hair. From the shadow’s dark touch, she could hear and feel Hades’ thoughts: Zagreus, Zagreus, Zagreus, over and over again, and the agony and rage she felt behind the mantra of their son’s name made her tremble. The fury she had seen within him earlier was burning, fiercer than ever, charring him from the inside out. Reaching into the smoke that surrounded her, Persephone sent forth a spark of her power, in an effort to soothe him, and she hissed as she felt his rage only burn hotter in response. The apartment groaned; the overhead light fixture swayed; and Dawn’s light turned into ash and shadow within the room. _Hades_ , she begged, turning back to face him, _my love_ — _stop this_. 

“ _Uncle!_ ”

Hades’ back arched and then slammed down hard onto the table, whereupon his eyes opened and the darkness in the room returned to him. She saw the uneasy rise and fall of his chest and began to walk towards him. “My lady…” Thanatos warned, his tone uneasy. She pulled away from Death, and he did not dare to hold her back.

Abruptly, Hades sat up, swaying slightly as he moved. “Where...where is my son?” he asked, his words coming out rough and slurred. “Where...is Zagreus?”

Persephone heard Death gulp loudly behind her. “At home, Lord, in the Underworld, where it is safest for him—”

On shaking legs, her husband stood, and the fire burning in his eyes frightened her. She reached a hesitant hand out to him, beckoning him to come back to her, to stop running; to stop hiding. “Aidoneus, my love, please...”

“ _Thanatos_ ,” he hissed, looking past her, towards Death. “Have you known this entire time?”

There was a dark challenge in her husband’s ask, as if he already knew the answer. Death sighed, gentle and despondent. Persephone looked between the two gods—the two men—Death and his Master, and fear gripped her. 

“The boy is no king, my lord,” Thanatos said, his gray eyes solemn and downturned. “He knew what bringing you and Queen Persephone back would ultimately mean for himself, and he’s embraced it—”

In an instance of savage ferocity she had never before witnessed in her husband, Persephone watched as Hades launched himself across the room at Thanatos, piercing Death in the heart with his black blade, Stygius. “ _Hades!_ ” she shouted, aghast. He did not turn to look at her, and she could feel the oppressive force of his rage pulse off him in burning waves. Next to her, Apollo crouched, hiding behind his small sofa. 

Forced to his knees, Death grabbed the handle of Stygius, attempting to push it out, but Hades held the sword firmly in place. “My lord…please...” Thanatos wheezed, coughing up ichor. “The...Olympians…” cough, “are...needed. You...are...nee— _ack!_ ”

“I am _not_ an Olympian,” Hades said, twisting his sword. It was sadistic; it made her sick. _Beloved, what have you become?_ she wondered, feeling unmoored and lost. Thanatos cried out as Hades twisted Stygius once more and, snapping out of her trance, Persephone rushed forward. _I will not see you fall like this,_ she thought. Quickly, she grabbed Hades forcefully by the waist, startling him, and pulled him rearward until he fell back on her against Apollo’s leather sofa. In the commotion, she could hear one of Odin’s infernal birds cawing. 

“ _Let me go_ ,” Hades snarled, gnashing his teeth and kicking out his feet. She placed her palm over his chest, feeling the wild, panicked beating of his heart, and pushed her power into him. “My love,” she told him, whispering into his ear. “My love, my love…” Still, her husband writhed and protested, attempting to send out flames of smoke and shadow—and wailing, forlorn, when he found that he no longer had the strength for it. “My love, I am here. Do not carry this burden alone. I am here.” Hades’ chest rose and fell raggedly, and she could feel his fingers twist into the fabric of her clothes, pulling on her tightly. 

“Our son is dying,” he gasped, turning his head back and forth. She held him and locked eyes with Thanatos, who nodded stiffly in response as he clutched his wound. _Zagreus_ , Persephone thought, blinking away hot tears. Their beautiful son. “After...everything—everything I’ve _done_ ,” Hades wheezed, still struggling against her grip, “he will burn into smoke and ash.” The anger she felt in him boiled and twisted, morphing into grief, and she kissed his temple, trembling as she let his emotions envelop and overtake her for the briefest of moments. Grief, anger, rage, guilt: they were scalding and overwhelming, and Persephone shuddered at the knowledge that this was how he felt, every moment of every day. It was a poison, and he was being consumed by it, utterly and completely. _Hades_...

“Is there anything we can do?” she asked, pressing more of her power into him, as soothing a balm as she could make. He shuddered and groaned, and she felt his feverish hand clasp the top of the one she had placed on his chest, entwining their fingers. She pressed her head against his; he was trying. Through the rage that ate away at him, twisting him into someone she barely recognized—he was trying. 

“No, my lady,” Thanatos said, moving to sit next to them on the floor. From the corner of her eye, she could see Apollo and Odin watching the three of them warily. “It is the nature of the pact. Lord Hades exchanged his life for your son’s; thus, he cannot regain his life without your son’s being taken—”

Hades cried out in her arms, a wretched shriek of agony that tore from his throat and left her shaken. Persephone swallowed hard; she could not follow him into this abyss, no matter how much she wanted to join him in his grief. She had been there before, and its dark road had only served to lead them here. She shut her eyes, kissing his head. She would be his lifeline instead; she would not— _could not_ —let him drown in despair. She felt something wet fall onto her arm, and she knew then that he was weeping, and that knowledge alone nearly broke her resolve. Thanatos continued, “Zagreus still lives, but he’s grown steadily weaker, and will only continue to do so as—”

“I understand,” she said, her voice coming out much sharper than she’d intended. She sighed, opening her eyes and softening her tone: “We will need to see him, before…”

Thanatos peered at her, uncertain. His gray eyes darted down to Hades—who had calmed, but whose breathing still rattled from his throat, unsteady—and then back to her, and she could see both remorse and shame haunting him. “Of course, my lady. When you and his lordship are…ready.”

Dawn’s warm, soothing light gently illuminated the room, and against her palm, Hades’ heart beat strong...and frantic. “Breathe with me,” she said, whispering into his ear. 

“W-what?” he asked, coughing. And, _Fates_ : his voice sounded different then, like a mortal man’s, like Logan’s, and she held him tight, because as Stella Porter, she had watched him die. “Breathe with me, Hades,” she told him, pulling their entwined hands up to her mouth. She kissed his knuckles, felt him nod and faintly say, “...Okay.” She inhaled slowly, and he followed her, held his breath with her, exhaled with her. She repeated the motion, again and again, blocking out the low murmur of voices coming from Thanatos and Odin and Apollo. “...Now, beloved,” she said, keeping her voice low so that only he could hear, “we will save him.” 

He shuddered, wrapping their entwined hands with smoke and shadow, and she felt the power in his touch. _How?_ the darkness asked her. She did not know the answer to that yet, but their son was still alive—and she intended to keep him that way. “Together,” she said, kissing his cheek as his breathing finally began to steady. His racing thoughts flowed through her: _the pact, the Fates, Ananke_ …

"Yes. And you and I, Aidoneus,” she told him, holding him close as he shivered. “United.”

Persephone felt him squeeze her hand gently. Her lover’s touch, familiar, yet changed. “Together, then,” he said, speaking softly. His words were for her, and only for her. She shut her eyes, kissing the top of his head as she felt the warm rays of the sun caress their skin. It was a new morning, and they had found each other: she would never let go of him again...or their son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> power couple gon' get their mojo back


	22. Noble Cousin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> moar plot

Eric nuzzled into Henry’s chest underneath the blanket as the heater hummed to life; the building’s electricity had come back on. Reaching for the remote, Henry drew lazy circles across Eric’s back, allowing himself a small smile as he heard Eric sigh. He turned on the television, flipping over to the news, and the sight of a stressed out looking reporter greeted his eyes. 

“Good morning, KTTU viewers. This is Stacy Wagner, back again with our live coverage of the massive sinkhole that opened up in the middle of Empire City’s Diamond District. City officials have attributed the sinkhole to last night’s powerful and unexpected bomb cyclone, stating that the street’s foundational soil had been disturbed by an overabundance of rain and snow flurry, allowing it to crack and fold in on itself into the gigantic crater you see behind me here. The Diamond District has since been cordoned off, and due to the sinkhole’s proximity to campus, ECU classes have been postponed for the remainder of the week. Total damage costs due to the storm are estimated to be between two to three billion dollars—and counting. Back to you, Craig.” 

“Thank you, Stacy. Lots of news this morning, folks. In further news regarding last night’s storm, Empire General Hospital staff are complaining about a lack of preparedness—” _Empire General?_ Henry gulped, sitting up and disturbing Eric. _Stella’s there._ “—on the part of the management. Staff whistleblowers say that the building’s backup generators failed to turn on multiple times, creating chaos in the OR and ER as numerous patients poured in, including our very own District Attorney’s daughter, Stella Porter—who the ECPD say may have been involved in a Mafia hit, after she was found last night in a pool of blo—”

“Shit,” Henry said, standing up. “Shit, shit, _shit_ —”

“...Wha…?” Eric asked, rubbing his groggy eyes. “Whass goin’ on, baby?”

“Nothing,” Henry said, looking at his watch. It was 6:30am. “I gotta go to work.” He kissed Eric on the cheek and quickly got dressed, forgoing his morning coffee and shower; he groaned loudly when he remembered that his windshield still had two bullet holes in it. _Shit, shit, shit._

Gerry would have his suspicions, but Henry was really worried about Amy; _Amy_ had already made a few comments about how she thought his preoccupation with that son of a bitch Logan Black was starting to get weird. _Christ, Amy_ , Henry thought, scratching his cheek. He hadn’t shaved in a couple days, and his fuzz was coming in patchy. It itched his skin terribly, and he felt horrible all around. He needed a car—and he needed to piss. _Fuck my life_ , Henry thought. He quickly padded to his restroom, lifting up the toilet seat to relieve himself, and said: “Hey, Eric?”

“Yeah, babe?”

“I’m gonna need to borrow your car.”

\---

“Here, uncle,” Phoebus said, handing the Lord of the Dead a folded pile of clothes. Odin watched with faint amusement as Hades held the white henley shirt in front of his chest, and proceeded to press his mouth into a thin line. “Nephew...I do not think this will fit me.”

“I’d intended this outfit for a lover of mine, and he’s about your size. Perhaps a little smaller in the chest but...yes. I do think it will fit quite nicely.”

Hades exhaled through his nose loudly. “I can pull my own clothes from the—”

“Eons-old garments, perhaps, as Persephone has done—although, don’t get me wrong, sister, you look lovely—”

“...Thank...you, Phoebus. I—I think.”

“You are most welcome, Persephone. Still, in the name of remaining inconspicuous, I must insist, dear uncle, that you clean yourself up and change into this. The longer I see you in that sopping wet suit, the colder I get. Brr—” he shook himself and rubbed his arms, “please change. If not for your sake, then for mine.”

Next to Odin, Death made a sound—a tsk of annoyed disapproval, and Odin could see that he was rubbing his still-sore chest. “Apollo is right, Lord,” Death said, keeping his head bowed and his eyes downcast. Hades’ dark mood had improved, but it was apparent that the god was still on edge, and Odin sensed that Death did not want to further incense his Master. “You and Queen Persephone will need to travel through mortal avenues to reach an Underworld entrance, and that means dressing like a mortal would in this day and age. As you are now, the way is shut, and with Hermes still dormant...”

“Deadly little psychopomp,” Hades quipped, curling his lip into a twisted smile and rolling his shoulders. “Mortal avenues, mortal avenues...Are you suggesting that we go spelunking, Thanatos?” Hades crossed his arms, and Odin couldn’t help but notice the slight tremor in his wrist. Huginn cawed, and Odin pursed his lips. _Strong cigarette cravings_ , he mused. 

Thanatos lifted his head slightly, a deferential smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Nothing so...undignified, my lord. Master Anubis runs a funeral parlor in San Jose, near the Rosicrucian Museum. He will help you.”

Huginn cawed again into Odin’s ear, and Muninn settled into a roosting position atop his shoulder. “For the sake of time, you will need to fly there, Hades,” Odin said, observing the Lord of Dead as his knee began to bounce—and only stopping when Persephone placed her hand on his thigh. “On a plane,” Odin finished.

With trembling fingers, Hades pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why is that?”

“Too great a distance to travel through shadows without attracting unwanted...attention,” Odin responded, popping his glass eye back into his head. He’d need to get a new one again soon. Perhaps Phoebus could recommend a good ophthalmologist. 

Hades’ brows furrowed. “Did you not journey here as a god?”

“...Aye, Hades—and coming here from D.C. was risky for me, still. I was only really able to get away with it due to the distraction your sister provided.” 

“...Very well,” Hades said, sighing. He stretched back in his seat on the couch and then stood abruptly, rubbing his neck. “ _Fates_ ,” he cursed, darting his eyes to Persephone—and was that nervousness Odin detected in the stern-hearted King of the Dead? The dark god ran a hand through his hair and groaned. Everyone in the room stared at him, and that only seemed to increase his agitation. 

“E-excuse me, darlin’— _darling_ ,” he said, correcting himself. “Darling. Excuse me. I—I need to smoke.” He kissed Persephone on the cheek, and she nodded stiffly in response, surprised. Odin arched his brow. _How very interesting_. “I will join you, cousin; it is time for me to take my leave now, anyway. I’ve some other kinsmen I must contact,” Odin said, following Hades out the door. 

“You really ought to quit, uncle! It’s a bad habit, even for our kind!”

Odin reigned in a chuckle as he heard Hades grumble a curse at his nephew; the god had already put a fresh cigarette between his teeth. Rather quickly, they were down the stairs of Phoebus’ building and outside its entrance. Hades fished out his lighter and skillfully lit his cigarette, shutting his cold eyes and leaning back against the brick wall of the building. He exhaled slowly after a long pause, and Odin watched the smoke pour out from him, fascinated. 

“Why do you smoke?” Odin asked. Hades’ eyes shot open, startled, as if he had just realized that Odin had followed him outside. He inhaled once more, and Odin could feel the dark god’s wintry gaze roving over him, sizing him up. “Peace, cousin, I meant no offense—”

“I’ve an addiction,” Hades said, looking away from Odin. He tapped the ashes of his cigarette to the ground. “I’ve tried giving it up—recent circumstances have made that markedly more difficult.” 

Huginn cawed, lifting off from Odin’s shoulder, and Hades watched the animal soar into the air. “You mean the circumstances surrounding your son,” Odin said, putting on his hat. 

“Hmmm,” Hades rumbled, smirking, but there was no amusement in his eyes. “Yes...and no, All Father.”

Odin cocked his head to the side and scratched his beard. It was beginning to get rather long. _I ought to shave soon_ , he thought. Hades took another long drag from his cigarette, and the two men stood in silence with one another as the city's early morning traffic began to flow through the snow-covered streets. A young mother with her little girl walked past the two of them. “It is a cruel twist of Fate,” said Hades, watching the pair as they crossed the street, “for a parent to mourn their child.” Ah, so that was where his thoughts were. 

“Aye, it is,” Odin said. “I’ve many children...but I, too, have lost a son.”

Hades considered Odin’s words for a moment, tapping the last bits of ash from his cigarette onto the ground. “...What was his name?” he asked, both cautious and curious.

Muninn squawked loudly, taking off into the sky, and Odin released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Baldur. It was a violent, terrible death.”

“I...I am sorry to hear that,” Hades said, and Odin watched the dark god’s throat bob. “Many a time did I sit in judgement of a soul, hearing the desperate pleas of their family in the World Above over such a death. Clemency, mercy, they begged, banging their fists against the ground like drums. And I...never understood them, not really. How could I? I had no mortal lovers, fathered no half-mortal children—how could I understand such loss?” The dark god laughed then, a morose chuckle. “Even my brothers had some understanding of losing a child before I ever did.”

Odin clasped Hades on the shoulder then, delighting at the nervous surprise he gleaned in the god’s eyes. “Take heart, young man,” Odin said, because in that moment, that’s what Hades was: a young man, unsure of himself, and so very much in need of guidance. “For though you said to me that even gods must die, know this: they can be reborn.”

Hades’ hard gaze locked onto him, and Odin watched as the cold ice of his wintry eyes burned into a raging blue fire. “Teach me this power, All Father,” he said, his voice rough and demanding.

Odin stepped away, releasing Hades’ shoulder. “It is not a power that I possess, Hades. It is simply a fact about our nature. One day, one day soon, Baldur will return to me. This I know.”

Hades’ eyes narrowed. “A preordained Fate, then.”

Odin shrugged. “As you say, cousin.”

Hades’ nostrils flared, and Odin could see the vein in his forehead begin to pulse. “That does not help me, old man.” He dropped his used cigarette to the ground, smashed the butt with his foot, and lit another. _Addicted indeed_ , Odin thought. “Fucking Fates,” Hades groused, his angry growl strangely morphing into bark of discordant laughter. “Seems my idiot nephew is coming this way,” he said, his scowling mouth twisting up into a darkly amused grin.

“Phoebus?”

Hades shook his head, nodding in the direction of a rusted out Fiat driving towards them. In the car Odin spied an exhausted-looking youth, whose eyes grew wider and wider as he drove ever-closer, and whose jaw fell more ajar with each passing second. The youth continued to stare at Hades while pulling up to the red light, and Hades waved mildly at him, smiling warmly. Odin blinked, surprised: it was the first genuine smile he had seen from the dreary King of the Dead. The car behind the young man honked as the red light turned green. 

“It’s a green light, Henry!” Hades said, chuckling around his cigarette. The vehicle sputtered forward, and the young man—Henry, Odin told himself, Henry—opened his driver’s seat window, poking his head out and craning his neck around towards the two of them, shock written plain on his youthful face. Another laugh bubbled out of Hades, not tempered by anger or grief; he sounded genuinely, almost alarmingly, entertained, and Odin let himself laugh alongside the god. 

“How now, Hades! I wish I knew what’s caused this change in you, but I’m glad to discover that you do, in fact, have a sense of humor.”

“Hmmm,” Hades rumbled, mirth glimmering in his eyes. “On occasion.” A harsh wind swept by them then, and Odin spotted gooseflesh prickle on Hades’ skin as the god shivered. 

“You are cold,” Odin said.

“Aye,” Hades answered, looking down at his damp suit with distaste. “Suppose I ought to head back upstairs, then. And face my wife’s wrath—again.”

Odin smirked. “It’s obvious she cares quite deeply for you, Hades. I did not expect that.”

“Oh?” Hades asked, putting out his final cigarette against the ground. The god was still smiling, but there was a dangerous glint in his expression now. “And what did you expect?”

“Come now, cousin. I think you know how your story has been told throughout generations. You’ve a reputation, and thus far I’ve gleaned that not all of it is entirely...unearned.”

Hades barked a harsh peel of laughter then, setting Odin’s teeth on edge. “I like you, old man,” the god said, turning on his heel and walking back towards the apartment's entrance. He paused there. “But tread lightly,” he warned, stepping through the threshold into the building. 

Odin grinned, tightening his scarf. “You as well, noble cousin.” He pulled out his cell phone, dialing the number of his favorite warrior goddess. 

“Hail, Odin,” she said, immediately answering. _She sounds sleepy_ , Odin thought. How he would like to join her in bed! He smiled to himself. “How is the world?” she asked, drawing him from his thoughts. “Did you find out who was behind the storm?”

“Morning, my dearest Freyja,” he said, a light hop in his step. “I did indeed. And I’ve some good news for our troubles.”

“...How do you mean?” Oh, she was awake now. Odin could feel his smile deepening. “The Greek pantheon,” he said, beginning to whistle, “is now in play.”

“O-oh,” Freyja said, the shock of the revelation causing her to stutter. “A-all...all of them?”

“Not yet, dearest,” Odin said, looking back up to Phoebus’ apartment. “But soon.” This, Odin knew deep within his flesh and bones, and that knowledge excited him. 

“Shall I begin to prepare for all-out war, then?”

“Oh, yes,” Odin said, grinning from ear to ear. "And make haste."

The time had come. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> smut in next chapter, probably. still working on it.


	23. Reflections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which the plot thickens again
> 
> also, tw for Johnny just being like, total scum lol. he's a racist, and a sexist, and basically every bad thing a person can be tbh. and eddie too. tw for criminals casually talking about domestic violence and being homophobic.

Hades’ clothes hung damp and frigid against his skin. Slowly, he walked back up the stairs to his nephew’s apartment, feeling sore and exhausted. As he stepped inside, he could feel Persephone’s eyes on him, curious and concerned. 

“You owe me, uncle.”

“Owe you?” Hades asked, picking up the dry clothes Apollo had placed on the couch for him. They were casual, but expensive, and Hades felt an uncomfortable twinge of guilt. He sighed. “Very well, nephew, I will see to it that you’re properly compensated—”

“Hades,” Persephone said, touching his arm, “Phoebus has purchased our plane tickets.”

He nodded, avoiding her eyes, unsure of how to speak with her. She seemed whole, and he still felt...broken. Unworthy; _weak_. “Thank you, nephew—” 

“Here, Lord.” Thanatos placed a small burner in his hand. “Duty calls. Johnny and your other captains are waiting to hear from you. For now, you should try to keep up appearances, so as not to draw suspicion.”

  
  
Again, Hades nodded, and the small twinge of guilt he felt earlier started to gnaw at him. “Thanatos, I…” 

“Don’t trouble yourself, my lord. I know.” There was that familiar hand on his shoulder; his gentle servant...and friend. One of so few. The air around him shifted, and Hades knew that Thanatos had left. 

“Your flight is scheduled for 3:00pm today, uncle; the earliest one I could find. I suggest you clean up and get your affairs in order with your, ah... _business_ , like dear Death said. No large displays of power, either. An Elder God like ourselves may be able to pick you out in a crowd, but you want to make it difficult for them anyway...”

Hades found himself looking at the floor, only half-heartedly listening. He was dimly aware of Persephone’s hand on his chest. He nodded at the appropriate times and headed into the restroom wordlessly. He tried to burn away his suit and found that he still couldn’t; at the very least, he supposed his lack of strength and command over his abilities boded well for Zagreus.

  
  
Naked, Hades looked at himself in the mirror, and frowned at what he saw. He had never been much of a vain man, but he was enjoying the sight of his reflection even less than before. For one, he didn’t recognize his body. The sharp scarring on his torso and legs from his father’s teeth were no longer there; instead, they were replaced with burns, small cuts, and scratches. He eyed the jagged tissue on his chest, where Thanatos had stabbed him with a blade forged from the waters of the Mnemosyne River. Now two bullets had pierced through that very same flesh, and Hades gripped the sink, shuddering at the fresh memory.

His eyes traveled down, towards his hip and groin, and his lips curled in disgust at the sight of the uneven texture of the skin graft scars there. Pain shot through him then, from his old injury, and he leaned forward against the sink, clenching his teeth. The straight scar across the bridge of his nose, the scar over his top lip—each one, painful reminders of the life he had lived, just as much as the dull ache drumming in his hip. He saw the tuft of gray at his temple; the gray hairs in his beard. Aging, like a mortal man, and looking more and more like his father. 

“Hades…” He shut his eyes. Her soft lips kissed the top of his spine, his shoulder blades. “You are still running from me,” she said, running her hands along his quivering abdomen. His voice caught in his throat and he stepped away from her, walking into the shower and turning on the nozzle to the highest setting. Silently, she followed him, pressing her naked breasts against his back. He shuddered. “Talk to me, Aidoneus,” she said. “Please.”

Hades leaned his head against the wall of the shower, staring down at his hands. He saw golden ichor and red dripping from his trembling fingers. “Blood coats my skin,” he murmured. Old memories scorched through him: the men he killed, with guns, with knives, and with his own hands. “I...do not like who I am.”

He felt her chuckle softly into the skin of his back. “That’s nothing new, my love.” 

He sighed, allowing himself a small smile. “Suppose you’re right about that.” 

“Besides,” she said, moving to stand in front of him and cupping his cheek, “I like who you are. I always have.” He swallowed, placing his hands on her shoulders, observing the tattoo of a dragon coiled in vines that ran from her neck down to her forearm. He took in the sight of her breasts, her narrow waist and full hips; she was different now, too, and it was because of him. Heavy guilt gnawed at his bones. Ashamed and numb, he let her wash him. Her hands traced the mortal scarring on his back, on his chest and legs, lathering up his skin and hair with soap and water. When she reached his groin, a wicked smile pulled at her lips. “How haven’t I tasted you yet?” she asked him, leaning in to kiss his chest. Her tongue lathed at one of his nipples, softly nipping at the sensitive flesh there as her hand snaked between them; she began to slowly pump his shaft. 

“Hmmm,” he rumbled, bracing his hand against the tiled wall of the shower—her free hand was pinching his other nipple, and she switched between the two, softly suckling and biting at him with increasing pressure. He hissed. He could feel himself becoming heavier in her hand, his cock growing harder and more sensitive each time she pumped him. “W-would rather...rather have my face between y-your thighs, than yours between m-mine,” he ground out, stammering as her lips planted hot kisses down his abdomen, and her tongue swirled around the tip of his cock.

“Mmm, always such a generous lover, Aidoneus,” she said, pumping him with one hand while the other massaged the head. He clenched his fist against the tile of the shower, biting back a moan. If Apollo noticed, he would never hear the end of it. 

“Perseph—” he tried to say, his words dying in his throat; her hot mouth was on his balls, sucking on the skin there. He exhaled harshly as her tongue licked him from the base of his cock, back to the head, and his toes curled when she took him completely into her mouth. He groaned, threading trembling fingers into her hair. She looked up at him, in that challenging way, and he smirked at her; he was completely at her mercy. She began to suck him, bobbing her head up and down, taking him almost all the way out each time, swirling her tongue around him greedily.

Her hands cupped around his ass then, bringing him closer to her. “ _Fuck_ ,” he gasped, lightly pulling on her hair. “Do you want this?” She only swirled her tongue around him in answer, digging her fingers into his hips. He proceeded to fuck her mouth, feeling himself growing harder against her tongue. She moaned around him, swirling her hot tongue over him, and Hades could only see stars. “Get up,” he panted, strained, but she refused, sucking him like his cock was the only thing in the world that mattered to her. It was too much; he was going to—“I don’t want to...in your mouth,” he said, groaning as she took him deeply. “Perseph—”

“Will you two stop having sex in my shower already?” his nephew said, his voice coming muffled through the door. “I need to get to work and I can hear you moaning from all the way in my kitchen, uncle.”

Hades flushed, immediately losing his erection. Persephone, for her part, did not look embarrassed...but she had never been very shy about this sort of thing. He sighed; she had always been the stronger of the two of them. She came up, kissing his cheek and stepping out of the shower, whereupon she began to dress herself in a set of clothes Apollo gave her. Hades followed her, burning with embarrassment, toweling himself off. He traced the line of her spine as she pulled on a pair of jeans, wanting nothing more than to hold her in their bed. “I’ve missed you,” he said. 

He caught her eyes in the mirror. Forest green and winter blue. She was so beautiful, and he looked like a dirty old man in comparison. He frowned. Death and the maiden. The contrast had always been there, but it had never seemed so sharp before. Then again, he’d never had gray hairs before, or such pronounced crow’s feet. Or had he? He couldn’t remember now, and it disturbed him that such details were lost to time, when others never left him alone. 

“What are you thinking about?” she asked him, pulling on a blouse over the new bra that Apollo had given her. 

Hades wondered, briefly, just how many lovers Apollo currently had, but decided that he was better off not asking. A thin layer of cotton now separated her skin from his touch, and that irritated him. He wrapped his hands around her waist, pulling her back towards him. “How I’d like to tear these rags right off you,” he growled, kissing her neck, making her giggle. 

“Those clothes are from Hermès and they are very expensive, uncle!” 

“ _Fates_ ,” Hades groaned, pressing his forehead against her shoulder. Her warm laughter wrapped around him like a blanket, soothing him. “Come, my love, let’s get you dressed,” she said, turning in his arms. The clothes were fitted: the henley shirt pulled across his chest a little tighter than he normally would like, and the black jeans were an athletic cut he’d never worn before—but Persephone seemed to enjoy seeing him in both. It was a slow affair: she kissed him for every article of clothing he put on, teasing touches that became longer and less chaste, until he was pawing at her, pressing her against the wall of the bathroom, and hitching one of her legs around his hips. “Nowhere to run now, little goddess,” he said, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand. 

Apollo knocked on the bathroom door loudly. “ _Uncle!_ ” 

Persephone laughed. “Not here, my love. I think we’ve scandalized my brother enough.” 

“I doubt he can be scandalized by anything,” Hades said, laughing darkly and kissing her neck. He released her wrists, instead choosing to hold her hips as he rocked himself against her, making her sigh. “When we get home, I’m going to repay you for last night,” he whispered, flexing his toes as she wound her fingers through his hair.

“Are you going to leave me aching?” she asked him, light and teasing.

“Hmmm,” he rumbled, “You won’t be able to walk when I’m done with you.” His teeth bit at her neck gently. 

The door opened suddenly, startling the both of them, and Hades shot a withering look at his nephew. “Do you _mind_ , Phoebus?”

“Excuse me, dear Lord Uncle Hades, but this is _my_ bathroom.” Apollo crossed his arms, began tapping his foot. “Gods, you’re worse than Ares and Aphrodite. How are you two _worse_ than them?” 

Hades sighed, backing away from his wife. He was running hot and frustrated with lust.

  
  
“Here,” Apollo said, handing them both coats. His sun-kissed skin burned bright red. _Serves him right_ , Hades thought. “Thanatos popped back in and gave me your wallets, along with Persephone’s cell phone. I packed a few days’ worth of clothes—all very expensive and fashionable, by the way, because I have impeccable taste—and some Ambrosia in three ounce containers. A little hygiene travel bag, too, for each of you...and three boxes of nicotine patches, along with nicorette gum, since the flight is long and your addiction is...strong.”

Hades gaped his nephew. Stiff and cautious, he moved close to the young man, until he was standing directly in front of him. He cleared his throat; he suddenly felt very awkward. He wasn’t used to being physically affectionate with anyone, except his wife—especially now. Perhaps he needed to make a change. Before he could stop himself, he pulled in Apollo for a quick hug. “Thank you, nephew,” Hades said, feeling his skin grow hot. He stepped away from his nephew quickly, thankful for the comforting circles Persephone rubbed on his back. She knew him so well; knew him better than he ever knew himself. 

His nephew swallowed, his hazel eyes wide with shock. “It’s f-fine, uncle,” he stammered. “You’re the God of Wealth—I know you’re good for it. And besides, I’ve done quite well for myself over the centuries. Now, please leave. I really do need to start getting ready for work, and I sincerely don’t wish to be rude, but...if I hear any more dirty talk from you, I think I might actually have an aneurysm.” 

Hades pressed his teeth together; the tips of his ears burned. Persephone only giggled next to him, grabbing a hold of his hand and pulling him to follow her. Kissing her brother on the cheek, she said goodbye for the both of them. Wordlessly, she pulled the brown leather aviator coat over Hades' arms and shoulders, and then put on her own as they stepped out into the cold. 

“My men will be here in a few minutes to pick us up,” Hades said, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. He caught her grimace of distaste. 

“Your thugs, you mean,” she said, taking the burning cigarette from his fingers and putting it between her teeth. She inhaled for a moment and then breathed out, and he was completely mesmerized by the sight. She had always been able to make his heart stop; _that_ at least hadn’t changed. She put the cigarette back into his mouth. “I don’t see the appeal,” she said. 

He blew smoke from his nose. “Been smoking since I was twelve. Hard habit to break,” he said, wrapping his arm over her shoulder. She leaned her head into his chest. “I’ll try to quit again,” he said, tapping off the ash to the snowy ground. He let the cigarette fall from his fingers and smashed it into oblivion with his boot. “I promise, darlin’. Just give me time.” 

She looked up at him, sadness and confusion written plain in her eyes. “Oh, my dear husband,” she said, smoothing away the hair that has fallen onto his forehead. A car pulled up next to them and honked. “This is us,” he said, nodding his head towards the black BMW. He opened the door for her. “After you.” He placed his hand on the small of her back and teasingly traced it lower, spanking her playfully on the ass. 

She turned her head back towards him, giving him a _look_ —a look of warning and lust, and he grinned. Grabbing his wrist, she said: “We both know I can make these next few hours very uncomfortable for you, Hades.” Power radiated from her fingertips, and it was not soothing or calming; rather, it was the heady wildness of spring; the heat of new life overtaking the death of winter, and he shuddered, feeling the searing power shoot through his arm and straight to his already-heavy arousal.

“Hmmm,” he said, spanking her again, “I’m looking forward to it.” Getting in, he locked eyes with Johnny, who quickly darted his gaze away. 

\---

Johnny tried not to stare at his Boss who was lying with his head down on Stella Porter’s lap in the backseat. Did the Boss _kidnap_ Stella Porter last night—had he _completely_ lost his mind? It was bad enough that Johnny had to answer a call from one of the Commission dons this morning, since the Boss had fucked off to God knows where for hours, only to end up in the Williamstown neighborhood, halfway on the other side of town. “Morning Miss Porter, morning Boss—where to?” 

“667 Michigan Avenue,” Stella Porter said, all business, talking for the Boss like she wasn’t just some piece of ass he was keeping around. It didn’t make sense to Johnny. He’d known the Boss since his enforcer days, and he was pretty well convinced that the man was dead from the waist down. Strippers didn’t do it for the guy; and he only ever reluctantly went with the boys to Madame Venus’ brothel; and the one time the Old Man hired a prostitute for him, Johnny remembered that she’d left the room in tears. What was her name? Something with a C. _Chelsea_ , Johnny said to himself. Blonde girl with huge tits and a pretty mouth. And she was a tough girl, that Chelsea—and a real fuckin’ good lay.

So then that got Johnny wondering if the Boss was into some really, really sick stuff. Stuff a prostitute wouldn’t do...or at least would make ‘em cry. And that tracked, because Johnny had seen the guy kill his targets in some unnecessarily brutal ways, without so much as batting an eye. And after the whole Chelsea incident, the Old Man never hired another prostitute for the Boss, and Johnny kept wondering. 

“Maybe he’s, y’know, a fa—”

“Nah,” Johnny said, talking to Eddie, who at the time was another enforcer just like him. They were both part of the Boss’ crew, and he was their newly-minted capo. Still, even after years of knowing the big guy, he was still a mystery to the both of them. “My brother’s gay, I’d be able to tell.”

“Why’s it bother you so much who the man sleeps with, anyway? Not like it’s your business.” They were standing outside a cafe owned by the Old Man, waiting to receive a shipment of Italian suits. The suits were of course stolen; and stolen by one of the Boss’ newest crew members, who was a Russian that Johnny couldn’t stand: Misha Ivanov. The truck pulled up and they set to work.

“He don’t sleep with _anyone_ is the problem, you dumbfuck,” Johnny said, opening the cabin. Rows of Armani and Gucci suits greeted his eyes. It was a good haul. _Fucking dirty Russian pulled it off_ , he thought, annoyed. 

Eddie chuckled, lighting his cigar. He thumbed through the inventory. “Maybe he’s just picky. Or asexual. Ain’t that a thing?”

Johnny stewed on that. He couldn’t fathom not being attracted to anyone. How could a person live like that? Then again, he couldn’t fathom being a man attracted to another man, either. Actually, to be honest, Johnny couldn’t fathom very much about anything. “Maybe,” Johnny said, crossing his arms. 

Eddie laughed. “This shit really has you troubled like nothing else.”

“You don’t get it, Eddie,” Johnny said, leading a rack of clothes down the ramp, “Chelsea ran out of there _crying_. I ain’t see anything like it before. And she’s a tough broad, y’know.”

“Heh, well,” Eddie said, tapping the ashes off his cigar, “maybe he slapped her around a little. You’ve seen him whack plenty of guys—maybe he gets off on pain and she couldn’t handle it. So what? She’s a whore. It’s what we pay them for.” 

“It’s some sick shit, Eddie—”

Suddenly the Boss stepped outside, lighting a cigarette, and Johnny immediately felt his entire body clench up. “Mornin’, Tony,” Johnny said, his hands holding tightly onto the metal bar of the clothing rack. 

The Boss didn’t respond. He hardly ever responded to that name, but once Johnny found out the man’s middle name was Anthony, Johnny always tried to call him that. It made Johnny feel like he was a soldier in a real Italian crew, and not whatever fucked up ethnic mishmash of organized crime that the Boss was runnin’ under the Old Man’s nose. Anthony “Tony” Astarita sounded way more legit than Logan “Hades” Black. And the name had history, too: any wise guy worth his salt knew about Horatio Astarita. The man was a legend, cut down way too early and sent to the can because he just too fucked up; too much of a wild dog to deal with. And here was the man’s meanass son, ruthless as they come, rejecting the history of his name. It didn’t feel right. _You’ll always be an Astarita_ , Johnny thought, and not without some jealousy, either. 

“Morning, Logan,” Eddie greeted after a pregnant pause. 

“Morning,” the Boss said, exhaling smoke from his nose. “What are you two idiots discussing?” 

“Ah, nothin’ important, Logan. Just your sex life. John-John here is real interested. I think maybe he wants to take you out on a date.”

“Eddie, what the _fuck_ —” The Boss crossed his big ol’ arms, and Johnny was suddenly reminded of how the man choked out the last guy who pissed him off without so much as a second thought. Clenching his jaw and swallowing hard, Johnny watched his Boss, the hard look in his eyes, and slowly Johnny became more and more terrified. “Listen, Boss, I didn’t mean anything by it, I swear—it’s just strange to never see you with anyone—” 

“Get back to work,” the Boss said, smashing the burning butt of his cigarette against his tongue and throwing it in the dumpster. After that day, the Boss started buying lap dances from strippers, sitting stiff and uncomfortable even as a pair of gorgeous tits ran across his face; and occasionally he’d head over with the crew to Madame Venus’ brothel, only to stand there with his hands in his pockets and maybe have a glass of wine or two while the Madame teased him endlessly about which girl he was waiting for. Johnny could tell he was going through the motions. _What the fuck is your problem?_ Johnny thought. 

Johnny blinked, bringing himself back to the present. “That where you wanna go, Boss?” he asked. Stella Porter was running her hands through the Boss’ hair, and the Boss had shut his eyes, reminding Johnny of a vicious dog finally content and relaxed enough to sleep. 

“Listen to everything she tells you,” the Boss said, sighing. Johnny had never heard the Boss sigh before. It was a weird sound. Johnny swallowed. Whatever Stella Porter had done to the Boss was fucking scary. The man who had never given a shit about pussy was now demonstrably pussy-whipped by none other than the DA’s kid—and _that_ shit wasn’t going to stand well at all with the Commission boys, who were not happy to hear Empire City’s mob chapter named in the fucking national news this morning. 

“You heard him, Misha,” Johnny said, muttering. “Guess we all gotta be whipped now.” He caught Stella’s raised eyebrow in the mirror, and he shuddered. How old could she be? Twenty-five at most? But she had the hard eyes of someone who had lived longer than that. A _lot_ longer than that. 

“Stop talking, John-John,” Misha said. “She is bringer of destruction.” Misha kept his eyes on the road, and Johnny noticed that the man’s hands gripped the leather steering wheel with white knuckles. 

“Damn right she is,” Johnny muttered, crossing his arms. They started driving, and the ride was mostly quiet...until Johnny got a text from Tommaso about the ECPD showing up with a warrant to _Pandemonium_. “Fuck,” Johnny cursed. “Boss, we have a problem—”

“John-John,” Misha said, a warning, “stop—”

“Shut the fuck up, you fuckin’ Russian piece of shit,” Johnny seethed, turning to look back at the Boss. The Boss was glaring at him, and Johnny averted looking directly into his eyes. 

“What’s the problem, Johnny?” the Boss asked, a hard edge to his voice. Fuck. _Fuck_. Now he was pissed off. Great. _Calm yourself, Johnny_ , he thought. _Just relax_. 

“I was gonna tell you later in private, but this shit can’t wait, and since it seems like Miss Porter is gonna be sticking around—”

“ _Out with it_ ,” the Boss hissed, and man, did his voice sound real fuckin’ creepy then. Cold and deep, and almost...cavernous. It gave Johnny goosebumps, and he had to take a deep breath. He was a second away from pissing himself. _What the fuck?_

“A C-c-commission d-d-d-don,” Johnny said, clenching his teeth. He was stuttering something fierce. He steeled himself. _Here goes nothin_ ’, he thought. “A Commission don called earlier while you were out. He said New York isn’t happy. And...Tommaso just sent me a text. The ECPD are at _Pandemonium_. They...they have a warrant. They won’t find anything, but it’s not good news.” 

“Is that all?” the Boss asked, hard as granite. 

“Um, uh…” Johnny stammered. “Y-yeah, Boss.” The was a long pause, and then the Boss chuckled, dark and menacing—and full of no-fucks-given energy. _Oh God_ , _what the fuck?_ Johnny thought, panicked. This was a big deal, and the Boss was leaning his head back onto his girlfriend’s lap without a care in the world! 

“Very well, then, John-John,” the Boss said, shutting his eyes again while that _slut_ , Stella Porter, ran her claws through his hair. “I’m trusting you to handle it while my wife and I are away these next few days.”

The record of Johnny’s mind stopped. He couldn’t have heard his Boss right. _Wife?_ No way. But then, Johnny _did_ see a wedding band on the Boss’ ring finger. Jesus Christ, did the Boss kidnap this girl from the hospital and elope with her? How the hell...? With last night’s storm? And _where the hell_ could they possibly be going? Johnny’s head was spinning. He saw Stella Porter’s eyes in the rearview mirror, and they weren’t the eyes of a young woman; there was something dark in them, something frightening and powerful that made Johnny’s throat turn dry. And _then_ she smiled—and Johnny once again almost pissed himself. 

“This is our stop, Misha,” she said, and the Russian shuddered next to him. Misha parked the car and she stepped out, with the Boss following her. They stepped into the building, and Johnny’s chest suddenly felt lighter; he hadn’t realized how thick the air in the car had become. 

“Jesus, Meesh, you ever seen a man so pussy-whipped before?” Johnny asked, his voice coming out cracked. God, he needed a drink. “I guess that’s what going without it for years will do to you.” He tried laughing, but he couldn’t. He still felt terrified. 

“John-John,” Misha said, loosening his tie. “She is goddess. Be careful how you speak about her, especially around Boss.”

Another panicked text from Tommaso. One good thing about the Boss was that he kept inventory and guns constantly moving between the properties he owned; the ECPD wasn’t going to find shit at _Pandemonium,_ at least not today. That didn’t solve the problem with the Commission, but it was something. “Yeah,” Johnny said, texting Tommaso back, “and the Boss is the Greek God of the Dead. “Hades” is just a fuckin’ nickname, y’know.” 

Johnny’s words were confident, but he didn’t feel confident. The Boss _did_ show up to the penthouse covered in blood—his own blood, Johnny knew, there was no way it was someone else’s—and strolled around like he was fine. _The Boss is just a tough son of a bitch,_ Johnny told himself. Gods weren’t real—they _weren’t_ —and even if they _were_ , the Boss being one didn’t track. No way. No way in hell.

  
  
But still, the blood…and the way he acted. And Stella Porter.

“Is not just nickname,” Misha whispered, keeping his hands tight on the steering wheel. “Do not say his name—he will hear you.”

Johnny swallowed, fiddling with the golden crucifix he wore around his neck. It didn’t make sense. The Boss was a good ol’ Roman Catholic, Italian man; Johnny had gone to _confession_ with him, especially in the early days. _For chrissakes_ : the man had been there for Johnny’s daughter’s baptism, and now Johnny was supposed to believe that his Boss was an ancient pagan deity? No. _No._ The Boss stepped out of the building, lighting a cigarette, and Johnny caught his hard gaze. 

His burner phone started ringing and he answered, watching his Boss smoke. “Moltisanti,” Johnny said, cringing at the fear he heard in his voice. 

“You find him yet?” Boss Michael Gambino’s cancer-ridden voice. 

“Yeah,” Johnny said. His heart was hammering; he could see his Boss was smiling around his cigarette, like the man could hear Johnny’s thoughts. 

“Why hasn’t he called us?”

“He’s busy,” Johnny said, clamping his hand hard around his necklace. God, he sounded so freaked out. 

Gambino laughed. “Busy? Who the fuck does he think he is?” _The Greek God of the Dead_ , Johnny thought. It was _impossible_. And yet—

“I think Boss Astarita has outgrown the Commission,” Johnny said. This was nuts. What was he _saying?_ Fuck, the Boss was walking over. Johnny rolled down his window. 

“Listen here, you little shit. Put that son of a bitch on the line right now,” Gambino growled. The Boss held his hand out, and Johnny passed him the phone without a word. His fingers brushed briefly against the Boss’, and Johnny saw the image of a king seated on a throne made from human bones. The hair on his arms stood up. 

“Michael,” the Boss greeted, keeping his tone casual. Johnny held his chest; his heart felt like it was about to leap out of his throat. Next to him, Misha flexed his fingers on the steering wheel. 

“You understand now, John-John?” the Russian asked. Johnny wanted to curl into a ball; he wanted to cry, to be held by his wife. “Y-yeah…” Johnny said, trying to drown out the harsh sound of the Boss’ voice as he laughed at Michael Gambino; a king laughing at a court jester. Johnny would never be able to get that sound out of his head. 

“Misha,” Johnny ground out, trying to keep the stutter from entering his voice. “H-how fucked are we?”

“If you do your job well,” the Boss said, his dark voice rumbling low and uncomfortable in Johnny’s ears, “not at all. In fact, I think you’ll find that I can be quite generous with my rewards.” He handed Johnny the burner, and at the contact, Johnny saw his Boss seated on a throne of black and gold. 

“R-right, B-boss,” Johnny stammered. The Boss crouched down, so that they were at eye-level, but Johnny still avoided his gaze. “Now, Johnny,” he said, tapping his fingers on the open window of the door. “While my wife and I are away, I have a task for you.”

Johnny swallowed, and so did Misha. “N-name it, Boss.”

“You’re going to kidnap Detective Henry Olsen and bring him to my nephew.” The Greek God of the Dead wanted him to kidnap a fuckin’ cop. Why oh why hadn't he just listened to his mom and opened up a restaurant like she told him to? He wasn’t made for this shit. “When you get there, my assistant will have further instructions for you.”

“G-got it, Boss,” Johnny said. Stella Porter was walking out of the building now—and not looking too happy, either. “You...uh...want us to rough him up too, or...?”

“Hmmm,” the Boss said, standing. He wrapped his arm around Stella’s waist. “What do you think, darlin’?” he asked her, that South Carolina accent slipping into his words. 

“Scare him,” she said, and there was a hard edge to her voice that Johnny found fuckin’ terrifying. “But don’t hurt him too badly— _I’ll_ be the one who does that.” She touched the Boss’ neck and he groaned; Johnny felt himself flush at the sound. There was some weird shit going on here that he didn’t understand—and, quite frankly, didn’t want to understand. He was only barely getting used to the idea of his Boss and Stella Porter being freaking gods; the last thing he needed was to try and parse out whatever fucked up dynamic they had going on. The two sat in the back seat once more, this time with Stella perched on the Boss’ lap. 

“To the airport,” the Boss said, sounding strangely husky as she placed her hand on his chest. The drive to Empire City International Airport was awkward. Not for the two ostensibly, incredibly horny deities in the backseat, but for Misha and Johnny, who had no idea how to react to seeing their Boss laughing and joking around like a normal person. Or at least, it sounded like the Boss was joking; the two of them started speaking a language that Johnny couldn’t understand at all, but it made his skin hum with energy. He felt, strangely, high. High as a freaking kite, to be honest. When the car finally arrived at the Delta terminal and the Boss and his girl stepped out, that hum on Johnny’s skin left—and he felt bereft in its absence.

Together, Johnny and Misha exhaled. They watched as the Boss and Stella walked through the sliding glass doors of the airport, his arm wrapped possessively around her shoulder. “Misha,” Johnny said after a moment. Finally, his heart seemed to be slowing down. 

“Mmm?” the Russian asked, leaning back in the driver’s seat. The morning had been rough for him, too. 

“You know the name of a good therapist?”

  
  


Johnny had the feeling he’d need to start seeing one again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chap persephone confronts her mom, and hades has to deal with his fear of heights and flying


	24. Choices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a shorter chapter here folks. was originally going to be longer, but I thought i should keep the airport and flying shenanigans to its own thing.

Persephone walked into her rundown apartment building hand in hand with her husband. He sniffed the air as soon as the door closed, curling his lip in disgust. 

“This place is filled with black mold,” he said, giving her hand a quick squeeze. 

She felt, strangely, young again. Inexperienced—while he had lived longer, and had experienced so much more than her. She blinked, shaking her head. “It was the only apartment my roommates and I could afford within walking distance of campus.” Gently, she felt herself being pulled towards him, until her cheek was flush against his chest. His scent was smokey but not unpleasant, reminding her of a burning fire. She breathed him in. “Not anymore,” he said, just above a whisper.

“No, not anymore,” she agreed, looking up at him. His eyes were soft, now, reminding her of the way he used to be, before...well. Before. His arms wrapped around her back; he kissed the top of her head. She wanted to take a picture of him; he looked down at her with such tenderness, and she’d only seen anger in him over the last few hours. For all the rage he burned with, all the grief she knew he carried, there was still some tenderness in him. If she could hold him this way forever, she would. “Your mother is here,” he said, tracing the line of her jaw with his finger. “Do you want me to come with you?” 

Persephone thought for a moment. The last thing she wanted to do right now was speak to her mother, but she supposed it couldn’t be helped. Aidoneus, however, did not need to be there. “No, Hades—”

“Stella? Holy shit, Stell!” Persephone turned her head to the sound of the voice; her roommate and best friend, Natalie, was at the top of the stairs. Persephone smiled at her. “Nat—”

“And _you,_ ” Natalie growled, running down the steps, pointing at Hades. “What the hell did you do to her, you _monster?_ ” She poked his arm, utterly fearless; Persephone tried very hard not to gape at her. 

Hades huffed out a low chuckle. “This a friend... _Stell?_ ”

“Damn right,” Nat said, pulling Persephone back from Hades by the elbow. “The DA is here too. She’s gonna kick your ass.”

“I doubt it,” he said, eying her cooly. Persephone could see him calculating how many years of natural life her friend had left, and she knew he was about to make a cutting remark. “Don’t, _Logan,_ ” she warned, lightly shoving him and rolling her eyes. “Go talk to your goons.” 

He only laughed louder, heading out the door with a fresh cigarette between his teeth. Persephone watched his retreating back with sadness. He was so rough now; much rougher than he used to be. Meaner. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. “What am I going to do with you, Hades?” she mused under her breath. 

“Jesus Christ, Stell,” Natalie said, drawing her from her thoughts. “What the hell happened?”

“I’m sorry, Natalie, I can explain—”

“Oh, yeah?” Natalie challenged, crossing her arms. “Then explain, Stell! Last night I get a call from Marie saying that you’re on the news being taken to Empire General after paramedics found you in a literal pool of freaking _blood_ —and then— _then_ I try to call Empire General this morning when the power comes back on, and _then_ —the receptionist is freaking the hell out, saying you discharged yourself and your _husband_ picked you up—and _then_ your freaking mom bursts into our apartment at 6:00 in the goddamn morning, soaking wet—just, what the ever-loving _fuck_ , Stell?” 

Persephone pursed her lips, unsure of what to say. What _could_ she say?

“Well?” Natalie asked, expectant. “I mean, _husband?_ What, did you elope with Logan Black in some weird, ritualistic blood sacrifice? Like, what the fuck?”

Persephone bit the inside of her cheek. Natalie was off...but not too far off. “No, Nat.”

“Okay...so what happened to you last night? Why were you in a pool of blood? You know, the news is saying it’s mob related. And...I did some digging on your freakishly tall boyfriend before the storm cut the internet and power. You know his real last name is Astarita?” Natalie pinched the bridge of her nose, moving her fingers underneath her glasses. The picture of complete exasperation. “Jesus, Stell—did you realize you’re dating an actual Cosa Nostra _boss?_ ”

There she was, feeling young again. Naive. Human. It vexed Persephone, reminding her of the days when she was Kore, and only Kore. She’d long since grown out of that, and yet those feelings refused to leave her alone. “I might have...figured that out a while ago, yeah.” 

“Before your date with him last night.”

Persephone winced. “Yes.”

Natalie sighed, adjusting her glasses. “Your taste in men is literal dogshit, sis. Like, are you on drugs or something? He _kills people_ , Stella! Like, for a living!”

The air around them became thick; so thick, it was difficult for Persephone to catch her breath. The seconds slowly dragged on and the two women stared at each other. Persephone wanted to tell her everything, but the words caught in her throat every time she opened her mouth. 

Natalie had been there for her for every heartbreak she endured as Stella Porter; she’d been a shoulder to cry on every moment Stella broke down, hurting from the rampant racism and sexism she dealt with on a daily basis at ECU. Nat didn’t always understand, but she was always present, and now Persephone couldn’t even give her a proper explanation. How could she? It was too much; an incredible burden to place on Natalie. She didn’t deserve that. “Nat—”

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” There were tears in Natalie’s gray eyes, threatening to fall. She didn't let them. “Just give me this one thing: he didn’t hurt you, did he? Like, he’s not the reason EMS had to get you, right?”

Persephone shook her head. “No, Natalie…” But even then, that answer felt like a half-truth. As Stella Porter, she _did_ run from him; she ran from a man who believed he was Hades, and she had fallen in the snow, breaking her ankle severely. She ran from his violence: she had been terrified of him, terrified of how he had grabbed Hunter—Zagreus, their _son_ —so forcefully and easily. Would he do the same to her? She had to run away; she had no other choice.

“...Okay,” Natalie said, wiping her eyes with her sweatshirt sleeve. Persephone winced once again; she could tell Natalie didn’t fully believe her. Another relationship, permanently changed. “C’mon, your mom is here.” 

As they stepped into their apartment, Persephone felt the air turn frigid. Her friend stood next to her, frozen—both unhearing and unseeing—and Persephone frowned, waving her hand in front of her friend’s eyes. “ _Really_ , mother?”

“Seems he got his stink on you. Quite unfortunate that he smells like lilac now, while you smell like fire-ash.” 

“Perhaps that smell is coming from the burning cigarette in your mouth, mother.” Persephone crossed her arms, watching the elder goddess carefully as she stared out the window down to the street below. Demeter was wearing one of Stella’s interview suits, Persephone realized. She narrowed her eyes. “Why are you here, mother?”

“Why, to check in on you, my daughter,” Demeter said, tossing a disinterested look over her shoulder. “And to convince you that this is a fool’s errand.”

Persephone sighed. “Not anymore foolish than plunging Hellas into a bitter winter when—”

“My brother—your _husband_ ,” Demeter hissed, spinning on her heel, “is a fool. Have you not suffered enough for him? Have you not seen the man he’s become?”

Persephone ignored her mother’s question, though it pierced her heart all the same. She did see who he’d become, and it pained her. There was still tenderness in him, though it troubled her that he had buried such parts of himself so deeply. “All I wanted was my son, and Aidoneus did what he thought was necessary.” Without her, and at such great cost. She balled her fingers into fists.

“Aidoneus? Is that what he goes by now?” 

“It is what he has always gone by, mother. You know this.”

“Tch. Don’t say that name to me,” Demeter warned, looking back outside. “That man is long gone. You would do well to remember that fact, daughter.” 

Persephone knew that her mother was staring at Hades down below; she could feel the hate radiating off her mother, the utter contempt she had for him. “After all these years,” Persephone said, shaking her head, “you still hate him.”

Demeter laughed, burning her cigarette out on the windowsill. “Of course I do. He wasn’t satisfied with taking you from me for half the year; instead, he made a pact that not only resulted in his death, but yours as well. _And_ your fathers’—and countless others. All for that dreaded boy spawned of his cold, cursed seed—”

“Don’t talk about my son like that,” Persephone warned. Her palms tingled, crackling with energy: the power to call forth life...and the power to bring forth its destruction. 

“He is my _grandson!_ ” Demeter said, nearly shouting. “I care for him as such. I’ve loved him longer than you will ever know.”

Persephone exhaled harshly from her nose. The power she felt in her hands was beginning to burn the skin of her palms. She needed to reign herself in, and quickly. “If you care at all for him, you will not talk about my son as if he is an ill omen.”

“Is he not? He is an aberration. And yet I do love him, because he comes from you.” Demeter sighed, stepping away from the window. Her bright green eyes shone fiercely in the mid-morning light; the same eyes Persephone had, and the same eyes Zagreus had. Three generations. Persephone’s heart hammered; she desperately wanted to see her son again. “You and Hades are not the only ones who have suffered for his exceedingly poor choices.” 

“I’m keenly aware, mother,” Persephone said, pressing her teeth together. 

Demeter stared at her, keen eyes boring directly into hers. “Do you love him? Even after all this time—even as he is now?”

Persephone blanched, stunned. “Of-of course I do.”

Demeter smiled, ancient and wise. Persephone hated that smile; it made her feel like a child again. Once, when Persephone was very young, she had found a beehive and accidentally disturbed the colony. She only wanted to play and make friends with the bees, but the little creatures had not been interested. A few had stung her, causing her face to swell up. Demeter had told her to leave them alone—for though she was a goddess, she did not have dominion over them—but of course Persephone hadn’t listened. When she returned, her face swollen and tears running down her childish cheeks, Demeter had smiled at her in that same way. It had been a hard lesson. “You hesitated.”

“I did not,” Persephone protested, hugging herself. Of course she loved him! He was the father of her son, her husband and lover—had been, for millennia! As a mortal, she loved him across the ages, feeling drawn to him each cycle, each time they were born anew. It had always been that way, since the day she had first met him in her garden. 

“You did.”

“I love him, mother.” _Yes_. She nodded to herself. Yes, she loved him. She could not deny that. But...he _was_ different now—and she could not deny that, either. Stella Porter liked the fantasy of Logan Black: his suave elegance, and the unmistakable promise of danger lying just beneath the surface of his mischievous smile. But Persephone? She liked the reality of Hades: his sense of duty and honor, his graciousness towards his servants and subjects. Now, though, he was frightening to her...when he had never been so before. But she did not fear her husband; rather, she feared _for_ him. “There is pain in him now that even I cannot soothe. And he has so much rage inside of him...that rage frightens me.” She thought of Thanatos; of how Hades ran him through, savagely and effortlessly, and she thought of the memories of killing she saw in Hades’ embrace. There was regret in those memories...but oftentimes, there was a dark glee, too. She shuddered. He enjoyed killing, even as it repulsed him. Yes: he was different now. 

“Hmmph.” Demeter stepped in front of Persephone, placing a hand on her cheek. “It is not your job to fix him, daughter.”

Persephone nodded. She knew that; had learned that fact early on in their marriage, when he would wake up in cold sweats muttering to himself; and he would refuse to tell her what was wrong, instead choosing to storm off and spar with one of the hundred-handed, or begin his daily tour of the realm early. She swallowed hard, realizing something she had long ignored: he had been running from her, even then, all those years ago. Maybe he wasn’t so different now, after all. 

He never talked about his nightmares, but she could see and feel glimpses of them, when his control slipped. It was always the same: a large mouth; gnashing, sharp teeth; landing in boiling stomach acid as a newborn infant—and isolation. Persephone shut her eyes. She loved him, but she could not fight his battles for him. “I’ve never tried to fix him.”

“Daughter, daughter. You may be able to fool yourself, but you cannot fool me.” Demeter looked down at her. “So you’ve chosen him again, have you?”

“I will always choose him, mother.”

Demeter shook her head, smiling sadly. Disappointment drew across her features, ancient and all-too-familiar. “When you return—and you will return—you both will be my enemy.”

Persephone swallowed. “You would fight with the New Gods against your own kin?”

“If it means you are mine again, I will do anything. The New Gods, the human laws of this country—anyway I can, won’t hesitate to destroy him, and to bring you back to me. I’ve done it countless times before.”

“Countless times before…” Persephone cocked her head to the side. “What do you mean?” Her eyes widened with sudden clarity; the gunman! “Mother, you _didn’t_ —” 

“Stupid _girl!_ ” Demeter said, acerbic and cruel, “I did it to keep you safe! You’ve seen just how twisted he’s become. Don’t act so shocked. It was a fitting end.”

Persephone twisted away from her mother’s grasp. The image of Logan—of _Aidoneus_ —being shot and bleeding out in the snow burned hot in her mind. “You had him killed,” she said, her words coming out strained. The power in Persephone’s hands was starting to scald her skin now; she clenched her teeth. 

“Yet he’s still alive, regrettably.” 

“ _Mother_.”

“I’ve given you freedom, haven’t I? I’ve let you live with these two idiot women—I even allowed Henry to get close to you, and _other_ men besides—and yet you _still_ choose _him?_ Why, Kore? _Why? Why can’t ever you be happy with me and the life I have planned for you?_ ”

Persephone thought about Aidoneus’ words on the first day they met, whispered lovingly into her ear and kissed softly upon her lips. ‘We are meant for each other,’ he said. There had been truth in those words: a certainty that she felt in her bones and flesh as he held her. She couldn’t deny it then, and she couldn’t deny it now. “We are meant for each other,” she answered, simply, walking away from her mother. She hugged Natalie, whose frozen body began to arouse to consciousness at her touch.

“I’ll be gone for a few days, Nat,” she said. “Take care of Marie.” 

Natalie blinked at her, confused and groggy. “Uh…”

“Don’t worry about me, okay? Never worry about me.” Persephone hugged her once again. “I promise I’ll explain everything when I come back. I promise.”

“Stell, what…what’s your mom doing here?”

“Don’t worry about her, either. She was just _leaving_.” Persephone let Natalie go, turning back to Demeter. “Goodbye, mother.”

Demeter smiled, and it was not the kind smile of her mother. “Think carefully about my question, daughter: do you love him? Is this really where you want to draw a line in the sand?”

“I do,” Persephone said, looking over her shoulder. “And it is.”

Demeter’s smile only widened, turning into an unpleasant sneer. “Until next we meet, daughter. Think on it.”

And so, Persephone thought. She watched her husband as she walked toward him outside, how his ears perked up at the sound of her footsteps, and the easy smile that grew on his face as he turned to look at her. That smile she’d seen so many times before, reserved only for her, even in the old days. She loved him; she _did_. 

  
  
She loved the way he held her in his lap, the steady strength of his heartbeat calming her as she placed her palm over his hard chest. Her hands were still burning from her encounter with her mother, untapped power begging to be released, so she pushed some into him. His pupils dilated and his jaw clenched tightly; she could tell he had to stifle a moan. She giggled, causing his gaze to shift to her.

“Continue with your teasing, wife, and I _will_ have you in this car,” he said, speaking to her in the old tongue. There was a wicked twinkle in his eye, which she much preferred seeing over anger or grief. 

“In front of those two?” she asked him, wiggling her ass over his groin. He leaned his head back against the seat and shut his eyes for a moment. She ground herself against him again, earning herself a hitched breath from him. “Come now, Hades, we both know you’re not much of an exhibitionist.”

He chuckled, and she loved the sound of his laugh; his real laugh. It was warm and joyful, reminding her hot chocolate on a cold winter day. _A very Stella-like thought_ , Persephone mused. She had to admit that they had both changed greatly. “I _did_ say you could teach me all sorts of new tricks,” he said, pressing his forehead to hers. 

“And _I_ said that I could make these next few hours very uncomfortable for you,” she teased. 

“Aye, and you’ve certainly kept your word.” He rocked his hips against her to emphasize his point. She laughed, kissing his neck. “Maybe if you’re good enough, I’ll help you feel better,” she whispered into his ear. “I’ve always wanted to join the mile high club.”

He shuddered. “I can wait until we get home.”

“Can you?” She wiggled her ass on him again, and she felt his grip grow tighter around her waist and thighs. 

  
  
“Hmmm,” he said, shutting his eyes. “Perhaps not.” 

When they arrived at the airport, he wrapped his arm over her shoulders, and she welcomed his warmth. She saw their reflection as they walked towards the entrance, and she smiled. They were together now, no matter how much each of them had changed. _Yes_ ; this is the line she would draw in the sand. There could be no other way. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> up next we got gods enduring the trials and tribulations of going through TSA and weird instances of meeting people you havent seen in forever at airports—and henry gets a paid a visit ;)


	25. Mount Everest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> important chapter. iMPORTANT. PLOT. but also there's some smut lmao.

Walking through the airport was strange. There were people everywhere, milling about like ants, many of them appearing exhausted. Hades pressed his wife closer to him. Persephone pulled out her phone, eying their gate number on the digital ticket. “This way,” she said, leading them to the security line. 

He settled behind her, placing his hands on her waist. An elderly woman in the serpentine line glared at him. He glared back, and she scoffed. He estimated that she had about...oh, a year and a half left. Persephone turned around to face him. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “Be kind, husband. Or I will make things considerably worse for you.”

He arched a brow. He was already quite uncomfortable, and grateful for the fit and color of the jeans Apollo had given him; they at least managed to hide his aching arousal. Mostly. “As you wish,” he said. 

“I wish it.” She kissed him, chaste and soft, and he stepped away from her slightly, moving to hold her hand. More people were staring at the both of them, and he knew that drawing too much attention was dangerous. Still: he wanted to touch his wife. He craved the feeling of her smooth skin underneath his fingers, of her small frame tucked against him, and he was irritated that he could only only hold her hand without drawing ire or suspicion.   
  


Something tugged at his leg, near his knee, and he looked down—only to see a small child gaping up at him. A little girl, three or four? Young. He froze, completely unsure of what to say or do. He didn’t know how to talk to children; he never spoke to children. Not as Hades, the god, or as Logan, the man. “Uh,” he sputtered. “H-hello, little one.” The line ahead of them was moving slowly, and his wife turned to face the child as well. He could tell she was smiling, enjoying his uncertainty in the face of a challenging adversary: a mortal toddler. “My daddy says you’re my uncle, mister.”

“I-I see,” Hades said, swallowing; Persephone covered her mouth, but he knew that she was laughing. The tips of his ears felt hot. “Do you know where your daddy is? It’s not safe for little kids to wander around alone...or to talk to strangers.” 

“My daddy is back there.” She pointed to a man outside of the line, who was already running over to them. Hades instantly recognized him: the golden curls, the stormy, gray-blue eyes. William. “Oh my God, Amanda, you scared me,” her father said, picking her up. “S-sorry about that, Logan. I turn away for one second and she runs over to you. Kids, man.” He had dark circles under his eyes, and a day’s worth of stubble on his cheeks. He looked worn out.

“Will,” Hades said. William still had no idea who he was, had not the faintest clue—yet he very much carried himself like Zeus, cool confidence and strength brimming from him effortlessly. That was irritating. “Good to see you.”

William peered at him, looking confused, and Hades gathered that Logan probably wouldn’t have said such a thing to his younger brother. Oh, well; it was the truth. Hades was glad to see him. Mostly.

“It’s...it’s good to see you too, Logan.” Will’s gaze darted over to Persephone, and Hades could tell that he recognized her. “And who is this? Did you finally find someone to marry your sorry ass?” he asked, holding his hand out to Persephone. "William Fitzgerald."

She took his hand, smiling. "Stella. A pleasure to meet you, William,” she said. “Amanda is beautiful.”

“Thanks.” Will smiled, bouncing the little girl higher up on his hip. Hades could tell that Will was suspicious of the two of them, could see the cogs and wheels working behind Will’s eyes as he looked at the wedding bands on each of their fingers. “What do we say, Amanda?”

“Thank you,” she said, her voice small and squeaky. Hades felt a deep ache inside his chest. She had dimples; she was smiling at him, he realized. His niece. Or rather, Logan’s niece. She hardly looked like his brother. Raven-black hair and almond-shaped eyes. She looked like her mother, Jing. He met her when she was a baby, only briefly; Will’s wife was not happy to see Logan in their house, and he couldn't blame her for that. By that point, he had already been made. 

“She thinks you’re Batman,” Will whispered, wagging his eyebrows conspiratorially. 

“Bruce Wayne, daddy!” Except the little girl couldn’t pronounce the ‘Bruce’ correctly; it sounded like ‘Bwuce’ instead. Persephone guffawed, and Hades’ cheeks grew hot. 

“My bad, baby. She thinks you look like Bruce Wayne.”

The line had moved further along now, and soon Will would be cut off from them. “Bruce Wayne is much cooler than me, sweetie,” Hades said, rubbing the back of his neck. Fates, he was nervous. He hated feeling nervous, almost as much as he hated feeling afraid. "Nuh-uh," she said. Suddenly shy, the little girl turned to hug her father, burying her face into his shoulder. 

“Where are you headed?” Will asked. “Not like you to fly anywhere. Must be far.”

“California,” Persephone said, weaving her arm around Hades'. Will narrowed his eyes at her, growing more suspicious. “I feel like we’ve met before, Stella.” 

“What are you doing back in Empire?” Hades asked, trying to distract his brother. It was possible that Will either remembered Stella from his limited interactions with her mother—or that a deeper part of him recognized her as his daughter. Hades couldn’t have that, not yet; not before they got to Zagreus. 

Will cocked his head to the side, a crooked smile playing at the edges of his lips, like he knew Hades was attempting to distract him. “Funeral for a colleague. You didn’t hear about Congressman Kelley? I’m pretty sure he was your rep, if you’re still living in the Diamond District…”

“I did.” Hades sighed. Now he understood. Congressman David Kelley had been fatally shot while shopping for groceries in an instance of gang violence over a week ago. He hadn’t been the target; the robbers were inexperienced and fired a negligent discharge, which ricocheted off the floor—and into the congressman. The man died instantaneously, and that story made national news, too—and with Logan only recently getting out of the hospital from his apparent heart attack. 

Michael Gambino had called him about that...and the Morenos...and the baby that Toothfairy had been found with. As if they were connected incidents. It wasn’t the 1960s anymore, though; taking out politicians so blatantly was far too risky...and too gauche, to be quite frank. But still: Logan was the boss and major kingpin of Empire City, and if other gangs wanted to operate, they needed his permission to do so. Ergo, anything happening out of the ordinary was also his responsibility. 

After a year of relative peace, things in the city were beginning to spiral out of control, and it suddenly occurred to Hades that the recent unraveling may have been the work of a god. Ricky Moreno said that an angel had spoken to him. Moreover, he recognized Logan as Hades, before Hades had even come to terms with his identity. Something was afoot here. The New Gods? Hades frowned. He would need to speak with Odin again at some point; for now, however, saving Zagreus and keeping his wife happy were his two priorities. 

Will’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “I don’t suppose you had anything to do with what happened to him...right? Because that could be very bad for me. Some of my donors are already getting...skittish.” 

Persephone’s eyebrows shot up; Hades bristled. “Certainly not,” he growled. “I can’t believe you’re asking me something like this in an airport.” 

Will’s friendly expression didn’t change. Hades hated that his brother had become quite the talented politician.“Well?”

Hades groaned and lowered his voice, whispering, “The execution was sloppy, not to mention stupid. And I would gain nothing from it, either. Give me and my organization a little more credit, brother.” Persephone stiffened next to him. Priority two, failed. 

“Ah-ha,” Will hummed. “So we _are_ brothers, then. When it’s convenient for you. Sure Sofie will be happy to hear about that. You know where she is, Logan? Because I don’t.” 

Hades’ eyes twitched. Was Sofia missing? He knew that she had moved, but—Hades swallowed. There were definitely greater forces at play. “William…” The line was moving more quickly now; Hades spotted Will’s wife and their two sons. Her dark eyes threw daggers at him. Hera? At the very least, she was similar. His brother definitely had a type. “I don’t like what you’re implying.”

“I don’t like that I have to imply it. But hey, looks like we’re gonna get cut off from you, Logan, so for what it’s worth...it was good to see you.”

Hades could feel the hum of electricity in the air, threatening to spark. Will may not have known who he was, not yet, but he was tapping into his strength nonetheless. 

“Likewise...Will,” Hades said through his teeth, nodding his head towards his brother. “Be seeing you.” Will smiled, still suspicious, but doing his best to save face. He held his daughter’s hand to wave at them. “They’re leaving now, Amanda, they’re gonna go fly in a plane just like we did. Say goodbye.”

“Bye-bye, Catwoman!”

“Goodbye, Amanda,” Persephone said, giggling, sweet and ever-charming. She knew how to talk to everyone, even when she was uncomfortable. It was one of the things Hades most admired about her. And she was certainly uncomfortable right now; she wasn’t leaning into him like she normally would. Anger burned in him at his brother, hot, hot, hot. 

“Bye-bye, Uncle Bruce Wayne!” Amanda’s tiny voice cooled the fire. It was unfair of Hades to be angry at Will, he knew. His brother could be foolish about certain things—but the man wasn’t stupid.

“Bye-bye, Amanda,” Hades said, waving at her as Will turned and began to walk away from the line. She was smiling at him again, over Will’s shoulder, no longer shy. 

“She’s cute,” Persephone said, entwining her fingers with his once more. He sensed hesitancy in her touch. 

“She is,” he agreed. He opened his mouth to say something, closed it. What could he say? He doubted anything coming from his mouth right now would comfort her. 

“Are you two flying together?” the TSA agent asked. They had finally reached the front of the line. 

“Yes,” Persephone answered, resolute. 

“Tickets and IDs, please.” The agent let his wife pass quickly, only glancing at her ID briefly. With him, however, the agent stared, looking back and forth between his face and and his ID at least three times. “You two celebrities or something?” the agent finally asked. 

Hades narrowed his eyes. “No.” 

“Huh,” the agent said, handing him back his things. “Look really familiar, is all. Have a safe trip, Mr. Black.” 

“Mornin’, mornin’ travelers,” another agent said, an older woman, much too jolly for Hades’ tastes. “All coats must come off, along with all belts and shoes. Pockets must be empty. No lint, no change. E-M-P-T-Y. If you are carrying a laptop in your carry-on, that must come out and be placed in its own separate bin. All liquids must be either thrown out or kept in three ounce bottles. Follow these rules and save us from havin’ to pat you down, ‘kay? Let’s go, let’s go, keep the line movin'.”

Hades kicked off his boots and unhooked his belt, heaping his backpack and leather aviator coat into their own separate bins. He was directed to step through the metal detector. “Can I go through the full-body scanner instead?” he asked. He knew he still had fragments of shrapnel in his body—not to mention screws and pins. 

“Metal detector,” an agent said. He sighed, stepping through the metal detector; it beeped loudly. Persephone was already on the other side, waiting for him patiently.

“Step this way, sir,” an agent said. He waved a handheld metal detector in front of Hades, which buzzed mechanically as it passed by Hades’ hips. The agent sighed. “I’m going to pat you down, sir. What I’m going to do is check from your neck down to your legs. I’ll be tugging on your collar and your waistband. I’m going to use the front of my hands for non-sensitive areas, and the back of my hand for sensitive areas, like your groin and buttocks—”

“I have metal pins in my hip and femur,” Hades blurted, anxiety gripping him. The thought of a stranger touching him with anything other than a handshake made him break out into a sudden sweat. 

The agent sighed again.“Look, man, I still have to pat you down. Do you have any other medical devices or sensitive areas I need to know about?” 

Hades shook his head. “Great, let’s get this over with quickly. Spread your arms and legs for me. Wider, over the yellow footprints. Hands facing up. Thanks.” Hades' nervous eyes searched for his wife in the crowd. Mercifully, he found her, looking at him with a mixture of curiosity...and, was that sadness? He swallowed.  
  


The agent, a young man, patted all around his neck and arms, down his torso, over his buttocks and groin. It felt like the agent was taking forever, and Hades’ hip smarted sharply as the man slightly squeezed the top of his leg, near his pocket. Fates, he hated airports. 

“Okay, sir, you’re good to go.”

“Thank you.” Flushed with embarrassment and anxiety, Hades grabbed his belongings from the bins, hurriedly clasping on his belt and putting on his boots. Persephone appeared next to him, smoothing back his hair. 

“That didn’t look fun,” she said softly. 

“It wasn’t,” he admitted. He put on his coat, grabbing the cigarette pack and zippo that he kept in the coat’s right pocket. The cravings were already starting. With his free hand, he opened his backpack, picked up a nicorette chiclet, and popped it into his mouth. He frowned; this was not going to be enough.

Hand in hand, he and his wife meandered through the airport, eventually making their to a coffee shop near their gate. Hades gaped at the prices. $11 for a cup of coffee? “Fates,” he cursed under his breath, throwing out his gum. “I _hate_ airports.”

Persephone laughed, which he took as a good sign, since he was vaguely aware that he had upset her, somehow, during his conversation with Will. “I’ve learned something new about you,” she said, touching his chest. “So you’re bad at dancing and you hate airports. What else should I know, Logan?”

He shrugged, ordering two coffees. “You know I’ve always been bad at dancing. Do you want an éclair?” 

“And you have a sweet tooth, it seems. No, thank you; coffee is fine.” 

So he ordered one éclair for himself, and sighed when he caught her staring at it. They sat down across from each other. “Would you like a piece?” he asked her, teasing. 

Persephone pursed her lips. “It does look good.”

“Here,” he said, tearing the soft pastry in half. She took it from his hand.

She batted her eyelashes at him. “Much appreciated, Mr. Black.” Hades could feel her shoe toe against the tip of his boot.

He quirked his lip up. What was she playing at? “‘Course, darlin’,” he drawled, gauging her reaction to how he spoke. She leaned in. “Gotta provide for my girl,” he said, hiding his smile behind his coffee as he took a sip. Hades checked the clock in the cafe. It was only noon. They had a few hours yet. 

“What are you thinking about?” she asked, taking a bite of the éclair piece he'd given her. 

“Thought you could tell what I was thinkin’,” he said, tapping his fingers atop the table. 

She rolled her eyes. “Only when you’re about to make an ass out of yourself, you scoundrel.” Again, he felt the weight of her foot on his.

He smirked. “Scoundrel?”

“That’s right.” 

“You like scoundrels, then.” 

“I like _kings_ ,” she said. She took a sip of her coffee.

“You’re in luck, sweetheart,” he said, folding his hand over hers. “You got a two-fer with me.”

She started to smile, but her expression faltered. What happened? Everything was going so well...He pulled his hand from hers. “Did I upset you?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. There was a pregnant pause before she spoke again. “But. Meeting my father today was...strange. And what he said about Congressman Kelley—I’m worried.”

Hades nodded, leaning back in his seat. “I’m worried too,” he said, speaking to her in the old tongue. “I don’t have the full picture yet, but I suspect whoever is working behind the scenes will reveal themselves soon enough. The Fates are playing games with us and their deck is stacked.” 

“The house always wins,” she muttered in English.

“Hmmm.” He removed the cap off his coffee cup, dipped his éclair into it, and took a bite. The chocolate wasn’t as rich as he preferred, but the pastry was soft. A simple pleasure that distracted him from his persistent need for a cigarette. 

“When we first met a month ago, you told me you were dangerous.”

He arched a brow, unsettled. “Aye, I did…”

“Tell me, Logan: what are some of your vices?” 

Hades narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t sure what she was after. “All of them,” he answered, honestly. Wasn’t much that he’d avoided, especially after being discharged from the service. He was a walking den of sin.

“So,” Persephone said, taking hold of his hand, “I take it you’ve some experience gambling, Mr. Black.”

He snorted. “Of course I do, darlin’.” 

“You ever win big?”

“Hmmm,” he said, running his thumb over the tops of her knuckles. “On occasion.” 

“Even when the odds were stacked against you?”

“The odds are always stacked against you.” After a moment of silence, she said, “So then, if the odds are always stacked—how do scoundrels ensure they win a game of chance?”

He grinned. “Only way to ensure you win is if you cheat.”

“So while the sisters stack their decks, we’ll...” she trailed off, looking up, feigning innocence.

“Load our dice,” he finished. Cheating the Fates—a wicked idea. One that he would have never dared to think of, in the past. Even after he’d been assigned his dreary lot. There were ancient laws he felt needed to be respected, but now? Now, he couldn’t find it in himself to care; he wanted his son to live. “You sure I’m the scoundrel?” he asked, drinking in the sight of her. His wife could feign innocence all she wanted, but she was just as ruthless as him. It was one of the many, many reasons he loved her. She’d never been a soft or wilting flower; she was the Iron Queen of the Underworld. Fates—he wanted her. His mouth watered at the thought of tasting her skin. 

“You’re the crime boss of a mafia syndicate, Logan,” she said. Hades felt heat radiate from her hand: her power, turning his blood molten. He clenched his teeth; once again, the crotch of his jeans felt uncomfortably tight. He reached down, shifting in his seat, trying and failing to readjust himself. “You’re definitely the scoundrel,” she said, tittering softly at his obvious discomfort. 

“This scoundrel isn’t going to make it onto the plane if you keep it up,” he said. It didn’t take much to get him going when she was around. A flip of her hair, a certain glance she’d throw his way. And of course, whenever she touched him like this; shared a little bit of her power with him. 

“You need to take care of something?” she asked him, keeping her tone light. 

“Hmmm. Rather you take care of it,” he said, finishing his coffee. 

She sent one more surge of power into his hand, and it shot through his veins, straight into his groin. He bit back a moan, hyper-aware of the other people in the cafe. “You’re a big boy, you can handle yourself, I’m sure.” 

He glared at her, pulling his hand away. “Are you being serious?”

“Seems like you might blow your top if you don’t hurry,” she said. She was right; he was rock-hard in his jeans, and it would soon become an embarrassing problem if he didn’t fix it. 

He stood, taking off his aviator and holding the coat in front of him. “Not quite sure what I’ve done to deserve this.”

“Nothing,” she answered, smiling. “It simply pleases me to see you squirm.” 

Ah, so this was part of her play. He let out a low laugh. She’d gotten very daring with him, especially in public. He quite liked that. “I’ll be doing a lot more than squirmin’,” he said, making his voice sound as low as possible. Her breath hitched, and he grinned to himself. “Sure you don’t want to join me?” He eyed the clock in the cafe. It was 1:00pm now. They had plenty of time.  
  


“Positive,” she answered, but her voice was rough. She’d forgotten that _she’d_ been the one who summoned him to her, all those years ago. He smiled. She’d be joining him soon enough. 

He stalked over to the men’s room, throwing out his coffee along the way. His heart was hammering; he could hear it beating loudly in his ears. He felt strange, fear and adrenaline pumping through him as if he were mortal. He washed his hands and pushed into a stall, grateful that the restroom was mostly empty. And it was clean; freshly cleaned, even. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to handle his current predicament otherwise. He hung his coat over the door. As it was, he felt his courage waning, even though his cock throbbed incessantly. He cupped himself through his pants, leaning back against the stall door. It had been a while since he’d done this; as Logan, he’d rather fight or smoke than pleasure himself. But that’s not what his wife wanted, and one of his priorities was keeping her happy. With his other hand, he reached underneath his shirt, rubbing his chest and abdomen. He gave himself a squeeze through his clothes, fluttering his eyes shut. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he groaned. 

The air next to him shifted, and he knew that she was there. “Believe it,” she said, keeping her voice low. She nodded at him. “Keep going, Hades. I don’t recall saying you could stop.”

He felt his entire body flush in her presence. So she did want to watch. He swallowed the rock in his throat. With trembling fingers, he unbuckled his belt and lowered the zipper of his jeans. He spread his legs a little wider, rubbing his shaft with increasing pressure before pulling himself out of his boxer briefs. He bit back a curse; he was _leaking_. He grabbed the base of his cock and squeezed himself again, biting his lip as he moved his hand up the shaft and massaged the swollen head.

With his other hand, he lifted the bottom of his shirt, rubbing the planes of his stomach up and down, trying to imagine it was his wife’s lithe and clever fingers touching him instead. He heard someone enter the restroom and froze, locking eyes with Persephone. He heard a zipper going down and the sound of urine hitting porcelain. There were footsteps, and then the man was gone. Hades frowned. “That man didn’t wash his hands,” he said. 

“Keep going,” she said, mildly. Her pupils were blown and she was beginning to fidget, watching him. His cock grew harder in his hand, and he moved down from the base to cup his balls, pulling on them roughly in an effort to distract himself from coming too quickly. He could see that her nipples were hard, peaking through the fabric of her bra and blouse. 

“You want me,” he said, stroking himself. “Why don’t you turn around instead?”

She smiled. “For a ten second lay? I can tell you’re close. Why should I waste my time?”

He _was_ close: he’d been aroused the entire morning since she took him into her mouth and he hadn't been able to finish. “I’d continue,” he said, doing his best to keep a moan from entering his voice. He’d been hard for her all day; it wouldn’t be difficult. He was a god, wasn’t he? 

She arched a brow. “Oh?”

“Until you couldn’t bear it any longer. Until you told me to stop.” He pressed his teeth together, willing himself to slow down his pace. He was only a couple more strokes away; his body was ready to combust. He could see her pulse beating in her throat; could see the tension in her thighs as she crossed her legs. “I know you’re wet,” he said, licking his lips. He realized he was being rather crass, but he also found that he didn’t much care. He wanted to be inside her, and he knew that she wanted the same. “Turn around.”

Another man entered the restroom, peed, and left. Neither Hades nor his wife moved. Her eyes darted down to his cock, then back up to his face. She smirked, turning around and pulling her jeans down over her ass. Hades stared at the curve of her buttocks a good ten seconds before closing the short distance between them in the stall. He fiddled with the elastic of her panties, contemplating wholesale ripping them off, but he had the distinct feeling she would not appreciate that, since they were given to her. Instead, he pulled them down, chuckling to himself when she said, “hurry up.”

Oh, he wanted to tease her; wanted to rub the head of his cock up and down the slickness her folds until she begged him to fill her—but he was about to come, and he wanted to release inside her; nowhere else. In one fluid motion, he pressed into her, shuddering as his climax tore through his insides and made his skin steam with heat. 

“I knew you weren’t going to last another minute,” she said, shaking her head and laughing. He held her hips in place, rocking up into her, against the protesting and rapid softening of his cock. She twisted in his embrace, looking back at him, shock written plain across her face. He grinned, rocking into her again, and his eyes rolled back; it almost hurt being inside her. He bent her over at the waist in order to get a better angle, and she gasped in surprise and pleasure. He had softened a little, but he was getting hard again...except, he was also close to climaxing again. “I think you might get pregnant after this,” he said, half-joking. She moaned, squeezing her walls around him. 

“How’s that?” she asked, pushing her ass back towards him, milking him. He took off his shirt, feeling very overheated, and hissed as the cool air of the bathroom met his skin. He pushed into her again, snaking his hand around her hip to fondle her clitoris. Her walls clamped around him once more and he came again, leaning forward to bite her shoulder as he continued to pump himself into her. 

“I’m just going to keep filling you up until you finish,” he answered, growling through his teeth. That was a frightening prospect. His prick had never been more sensitive; at this point, he could probably come from an errant breeze. Instead, though, he was buried inside her, refusing to allow himself to get soft. It fucking _hurt_. He rubbed her clitoris more quickly, in time with her breathing, faltering only when he heard several men step in, talking to each other. 

“What are you doing?” she hissed, clamping her walls around him, making him shiver. “Don’t stop!”

“Those men—”

“I don’t _care."_ Spurred on by her wantonness, Hades kept going, straining against her once more as another climax tore through him, and then another. “ _Fuck_ ,” he cursed, feeling completely over-stimulated. He ran his fingers into her hair and pulled on her, eliciting a moan that made his toes curl and kept him painfully aroused. She was pulsing around him, making involuntary little sounds as he pulled her hair and craned her neck back. “Harder, Hades,” she breathed, absolutely shameless. He increased his pace; anyone with functioning ears could hear the quick sound of skin slapping against skin as he furiously pressed into her, again and again. 

He could hear mumbling outside, something along the lines of ‘I think there’s a couple having sex in there.’ 

“Persephone, darling,” he gasped. “I think we’ve run out of time.” There were more voices in the restroom now. “Or...does my little goddess _want_ to be caught?” he asked her, pulling roughly on her hair. She cried out, loudly—unmistakably a woman reaching her peak—and clamped hard around him, pulling one final, shuddering climax from his spent body. He laughed into her shoulder, stepping away from her on shaking, uneasy legs, and she turned to face him, a satisfied smile on her face. “Well done, Aidoneus.”

“I aim to please,” he panted, still trying to catch his breath. With a wave of her hand, she cleaned them both up and righted their clothing; he bit back a hiss as he felt the flames of the Underworld burn the sweat and seed from his skin, while his softening and overly-sensitive phallus was tucked back into his clothes. There was loud knocking on the stall door. 

“Airport police, open up.”

“Just a minute,” Hades said. Persephone giggled, stepping on her tip-toes to kiss his cheek. “Meet you at the gate,” she said. She disappeared, leaving behind a whirl of flower petals and the scent of lilac in her wake.

“Open up!”

Roughly, Hades pulled the door back, causing the security officer to almost fall face-forward into the toilet. “Afternoon,” Hades said, steadying the man by the shoulder and stepping out of the stall. “What can I help you with, officer?”

“Where the hell is the woman?” the officer said, searching the stall frantically. 

“Woman?” Hades asked, raising his eyebrows. “Not sure what you mean. I only just stepped in there to do my business.”

There were several men standing near the entrance, some of them staring at him in awe, while others looked either irritated or embarrassed. “Bullshit,” one of them said. “I saw your boots and another pair of shoes in that stall, dude.”

“We _all_ saw and heard you.” The men nodded their heads, in agreement with one another. 

Hades shrugged, putting his coat back on. “Where’s the woman, then?” he asked. They all looked at one another. “Disappeared,” an older man said. 

Hades grinned. “Into thin air?”

“Uh…” the man stammered. “Y-yeah.”  
  


Hades stepped towards the sink and washed his hands, stifling a yawn. He suddenly felt very tired, and his groin was...sore. The officer was staring at him; the men at the entrance were, too. He shook his head. At least he would be able to get through the flight now. He hoped so, anyway.   
  


He walked over to the entrance. They were blocking his path. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I have a flight to catch.” He towered over all of them, and they each seemed to realize this as he stood in front of them, looming. He saw defiance and irritation and awe all morph into fear on their faces, as though they each began to get a sense of who he really was—of _what_ he really was—and suddenly they separated, averting their eyes from him, parting like the Red Sea. 

He walked towards the gate, unbothered and relaxed. It was 2:00pm now. They would be boarding in thirty minutes. He sat down next to Persephone, leaning his head against her shoulder, shutting his eyes, and only opening them again when he felt her hand tugging on his. He yawned. Fates, he was exhausted. 

“Our group is boarding now,” she said, pulling him along. She presented both of their digital tickets to the gate manager. They were the final group to board; she took the middle seat while he barely squeezed himself into the aisle chair. Hades grunted, feeling like his long limbs were being contorted into a pretzel. 

“Have seats gotten smaller?” he asked, exasperated. Persephone laughed, helping him remove his coat as he sat down. He reached into his backpack and fished out his nicotine patches. He read the box; one patch should work. He rolled up his sleeve, sticking the patch onto the skin of his forearm, and popped in another nicorette chiclet for good measure. He shut his eyes, sighing contentedly as he felt the nicotine enter his bloodstream. It wasn’t the same as smoking, but it would have to do. 

One of the flight attendants came by, closing the overhead bins, and Hades gripped the armrest of his seat. They would be taking off soon; he was dreading it. The black screen on the headrest in front of him suddenly illuminated, showing the brilliant, white smile of a Delta executive. Hades only gripped the armrest of his seat harder; the plane had pushed off from the gate and was now taxiing to the runway. 

He only caught bits and pieces of the presentation, feeling the growing anxiety in him begin to verge on panic. 

“Are you all right?” Persephone held his hand in hers. 

“Cabin crew, prepare for take-off.”

“F-fine,” Hades stammered. 

“Your palm is clammy,” she said, concern clear in her voice. The plane started to turn. This was it; Hades shut his eyes. “What’s gotten into you?” she asked.

“Nothing—” The engines roared, the plane shot forward, and Hades pressed himself back into his seat, clenching his teeth as the nose of the aircraft tilted upward. He groaned, realizing that they were no longer on the ground, but in the sky, flying. The plane rocked, hitting a bump of turbulent air. “Icarus taught these fools nothing,” he said, his voice coming out rough. Another bump, rougher than the last, causing more than a few passengers to gasp. 

The captain’s voice came on over the intercom again. “Sorry about the rough air folks, we’re going to try to get out of this as quickly as we can and hit our cruising altitude.” 

Yet another bump, and Hades noticed his vision was tunneling. “Logan,” he heard Persephone say. He could feel her shaking his shoulder, and he knew that she was still calling out to him, but she sounded muffled. Was he having another panic attack? Wasn’t he beyond such mortal failings? Evidently not...His chest constricted tightly, and he felt as though no matter how much air he inhaled, he couldn’t catch his breath. 

“Aidoneus,” she said, and he looked at her, frozen in his seat as the plane bounced roughly in the air, tilted at what felt like a ninety degree angle. He couldn’t speak; he couldn’t breathe. She sent power into him, soothing this time: the gentle touch of a flower petal against his skin, and he exhaled roughly, shuddering. “You’re afraid of heights,” she said, raising a brow. 

“The sky belongs to my brother,” he answered. Truthfully, he had hated flying since his first deployment. He had been in helicopters, planes, and the horrible, tilt-rotor osprey monstrosities—and he hated each and every one. And he _especially_ hated turbulence. 

“Not at the moment, it doesn’t,” Persephone said, smoothing back his hair. She touched his neck, sending that same power through him, that same soothing brush of a soft flower petal against his skin, and his pounding heart settled down. He leaned his head on her shoulder once more.

“I love you,” he breathed. The passenger in the window seat next to her laughed. 

“Sleep, Aidoneus,” Persephone told him. “I know you’re tired.” 

Hades nodded. He was tired; he hadn’t slept—truly slept—more than an hour in over two days. God or not, exhaustion was eating away at him. He shut his eyes, and even as the plane flew over rolling hills of air, he began to lose consciousness. Where was he? He wasn’t sure. He supposed it didn’t matter. He was finally getting some rest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> our boi henry is next. love y'all for sticking with me. love your feedback and your readership <3 thank y'all for your support. bless, bless.


End file.
